


Honor & Glory

by Celticgal1041



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-13 00:53:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 73,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7131500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticgal1041/pseuds/Celticgal1041
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>War is ugly and brutal, and completely without glory; it is only with honorable men by your side that you can attempt to survive it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> At long last, I'm happy to be back with another longer story. This one was started before series 3 aired, making it somewhat AU, and the timing is shortly after the end of season 2. This first part is short, and as usual, I'll be updating daily. If you choose to give it a try, I hope you enjoy, and that you'll take a moment to let me know your thoughts in a comment.
> 
> Last, but not least, my heartfelt thanks to AZGirl for her tireless help proofing each chapter, polishing my story summary and suggesting a title that both of us liked. All remaining mistakes are mine.

There was no glory in war. There was only savagery and brutality, fueled by the raw need to survive, beating down the enemy before they could strike you down first. It left a man heaving for air, covered in blood, and staring numbly at a battleground littered with bodies. The fortunate ones were dead; the unfortunate would be dragged off the field and tended in the makeshift infirmary, held down by comrades-in-arms as lead balls were dug out of muscle, and holes caused by steel and shrapnel were doused with strong alcohol before being swiftly stitched closed. After the battle ended, it was eerily silent, the stillness broken only by the pained cries of the wounded.

 

Men walked amongst the bodies, first, to search for the living, next, to recover usable weapons, and lastly, if there was time, to remove the dead before doing it all again the next day. Soldiers eventually became desensitized to the sights and sounds; it was the only way they could retain even the slimmest grasp on reality rather than going mad with the cruelty they witnessed every day. That men could treat others in this fashion was unfathomable, until you’d experienced the thrill of adrenaline when running onto the field of battle, or the sheer terror of having to fight for your life against opponents who were just as willing to die for their cause as you were.

 

There was no rational thought in battle - only instinct. Planning and logic was left to those absent from the battlefield, pouring over maps and developing strategy far away from the dirt and blood and death. Those men could callously speak of attacks and ambushes, the men they commanded nothing more than a list of numbers that represented the strength of their forces; they knew nothing of the soldiers’ names and faces, only tallies of victories and defeats.

 

A manic giggle sprang forth from the man’s lips as he surveyed the scene around him, too reminiscent of what he’d experienced every day since his regiment had been despatched. A part of his brain recognized that his reaction was wrong and he should be worried about his inability to stop, but there was nothing right about any of what surrounded him. He could feel the wet stickiness that coated his hands and face, recalling dimly the spray of blood from his opponents as he’d snuffed out their lives. Each move had been ferocious in its intensity, meant to kill or incapacitate as efficiently as possible, without thought for technique or the elegance he’d previously associated with his swordwork. War was a ruthless affair, and he wondered how he could have ever looked forward to being in its midst.

 

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The ball’s still in him; I need to dig it out if he’s to have any hope of surviving."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the wonderful response to this story, especially given the shortness of the prologue. Hope you enjoy this next part!

As they travelled from Paris to the border they shared with Spain, d’Artagnan had listened to the stories the other men had told, romanticizing past battles they’d fought with talk of heroism and glory. For the Gascon, the tales he’d heard offered some peace of mind, extinguishing some of the flames of anxiety that reared from time to time, and even turning some of the fears he had into excitement as the anticipation of the coming war grew.

 

Porthos indulged him, offering a patient smile when the young man asked what it was like to be in battle. He shared some of his milder experiences with the eager Gascon, glossing over some of the atrocities he’d witnessed, and emphasizing important lessons he hoped would keep his friend safe in the coming weeks. Aramis had withdrawn into himself, a part of him still desperate for the peaceful existence that the monastery had offered, but unwilling to let his brothers set foot on the battlefield without him. Each day that drew them closer to their destination, pulled him closer to his memories of Savoy. That incident marked the last time he’d felt the exquisite loss of so many of his brothers – a loss he knew would once again be unavoidable.

 

Athos had little time for introspection or storytelling, needing to oversee a hundred things at once. To step into command was sufficiently daunting on its own; to immediately make ready to march into battle was absolutely overwhelming. Despite his trepidation, his mask remained firmly in place, those under his command seeing only the decisive Captain who planned for every contingency in order to keep his men safe. At night, when their camp had settled into a semblance of calm, he would reflect on the Gascon’s youthful exuberance, fear welling for the boy and his other two closest friends, while wrestling with the problem of keeping them safe. Yet, their safety was out of his hands. In the past, he would have fought by their sides, but his new position prevented it. As he ordered his brothers into battle, he would often be trapped at his command post, watching as his men carried out his orders while he prayed for their return.

 

d’Artagnan had noticed the change that had come over his friends and it troubled him. He ached for the easy banter of their earlier days before reminding himself that they’d all been changed by recent events. Aramis’ indiscretion had nearly cost all of them their lives, and yet he could not bring himself to be mad at the marksman. While some might believe that Aramis loved indiscriminately, d’Artagnan had recognized the deep longing in the man’s face when he’d looked upon the Queen and her child – Aramis’ child, d’Artagnan corrected himself. The Gascon had recognized the look as the same one he wore when gazing upon his wife, and he knew that Aramis truly loved Anne and the Dauphin. That they would forever remain apart troubled the marksman deeply, and d’Artagnan wished that his friend had had more time to recover from his broken heart before being called back to duty.

 

Porthos was still very much the same man, but his natural good humour and positive outlook had been tempered. For so long he’d sought the identity of his father, dreaming of belonging and a connection to others outside the Musketeers. His disappointment had been palpable as he’d intentionally cut all ties with the new family he’d briefly called his own, and d’Artagnan’s heart had ached for his friend as he wished for some way to ease the man’s suffering. In the end, there had been nothing any of them could do other than warmly welcoming Porthos back into their makeshift family, before being thrown into the next series of tumultuous events. d’Artagnan supposed he should be happy that Porthos had adjusted as well as he had, considering what they’d faced next.

 

His eyes drifted to Athos, the newly promoted Captain currently riding near the head of their column, engaged in conversation with a driver from one of the many supply wagons. d’Artagnan had been amazed to discover how much one needed when heading into war, and had thought at one point that the endless caravan of supply carts would never end. Athos seemed completely comfortable in his new role although the Gascon knew better. There were small tells that the former comte was unable to hide from those who knew him well, and d’Artagnan was proud to count himself among that number. When he thought no one was looking, Athos could be caught staring into the fire at night, lost in thought and oblivious to the soft murmur of conversation around him.

 

To anyone else, the Captain might appear to be deliberating strategy, but d’Artagnan knew that it was something else entirely that occupied Athos’ thoughts. He’d been shocked when the older man had drawn them together just before leaving, admitting his weakness in almost following Milady. He confessed that he was still smitten with the woman he’d once tried to execute, and despite her many transgressions, he was hopelessly in love. The three of them had stayed silent as Athos’ eyes had filled with tears of shame and sadness before encircling him in an embrace filled with all of their love and admiration. Athos had seemed embarrassed afterwards, but they quickly shushed him and moved their gathering from his office to his apartments, where they drank their way through the older man’s plentiful wine supply. The night had been enough, it seemed, to quiet some of Athos’ demons, but d’Artagnan understood that his mentor’s thoughts still strayed to his wife, the persistent “what ifs” confounding his tired brain.

 

They’d been travelling for several days and would arrive shortly at the border where they would join other French forces in the war against Spain. Despite the fact that d’Artagnan knew this was no reason for celebration, he couldn’t help the mix of anxious anticipation that continuously roiled beneath the surface. Some of the men had shaken their heads at him in dismay, counselling him that there was no glory in battle, while others had been more tolerant of his nervous babbling, offering friendly smiles and nods as they answered his endless questions about what it would be like.

 

He knew that Constance fell firmly in the former category, her worry following him like a tangible thing even once they’d ridden out of sight. There had been precious little time to comfort her as the newlyweds had parted a handful of days after consummating their union. While his new bride had wanted to talk more about what the coming battle would bring, d’Artagnan had refused to dwell on it, assuring his wife that no matter what might come, he would always return to her side. Constance had been less than convinced, but didn’t want her new husband distracted by her worrying, so she affixed a weak smile on her face as she nodded in agreement.

 

As they drew closer to their destination, d'Artagnan wondered if that hadn't been a mistake on his part; if he shouldn’t have spent more time assuaging Constance’s concerns instead of pushing them aside. He would write to her, he decided, just as soon as they made camp. From what he understood from the others, couriers would be despatched to Paris on a regular basis with updates from the front lines, others returning from Paris with new orders for the commanding officers. Personal letters could be sent along and, although their delivery couldn’t be guaranteed, he owed it to his love to at least try. So decided, he cast his eyes forward and let himself enjoy the familiar sway of his horse.

* * *

The noises were thunderous and d’Artagnan couldn’t help flinching at the sound of another canon discharging. He’d never seen weapons as large as these, his knowledge encompassing nothing more than the sword and pistol, and eventually expanding to the use of a musket. He scanned the line of men standing around him to check their reactions, and was relieved to see that he wasn’t the only man who seemed unsettled by the noise and smoke around them.

 

The time they spent waiting was the worst, as the large artillery was used first to break some of the lines of men who faced them. Next would be the musket fire, the weapons too cumbersome and unwieldy to carry into battle, and too time consuming to reload to make them practical beyond their initial load. If there was cavalry, then men with pikes would be employed to remove the riders from their seats, the sharp, pointed steel at their tips often disembowelling those unfortunate enough to be caught. Combat would turn personal at that point, as men charged at each other with whatever weapons they possessed, using the stocks of muskets, pistols, and all forms of blades to gain the upper hand against their opponents. It was a vicious, bloody affair.

 

They’d been at their current location for just over a week and this was their third time engaging their foe. From what d’Artagnan could see across the field that separated them, the Spanish soldiers were just as anxious as those who stood shoulder to shoulder with the young Gascon. They’d been fortunate so far, incurring several injuries but few casualties, and the knowledge frightened d’Artagnan, thinking that their luck was surely about to expire. His left hand drifted upwards to press lightly against the steel cuirass he wore to protect his torso. The armor still felt odd and heavy, and his movements were ungainly as he adjusted to it, but the protection it offered could not be argued against. Many of his brothers-in-arms had survived potentially life-threatening attacks when balls and blades had been deflected by their own breastplates.

 

d’Artagnan’s attention was brought sharply back to the moment as the men beside and around him began to move forward, and he matched their steps, gripping his pistol in one hand and his sword in the other. Aramis, he knew, would be further back, his precise shots useful in keeping some of their attackers at bay until he’d exhausted his supply of loaded muskets or they became impractical due to the distance. At that point, if the skirmish was still underway, he would join them, adding his own sword to their fight. He and Porthos had started out side-by-side, but as the men moved around them, they were soon separated, some flagging behind while others surged ahead, full of nervous energy that had to be expelled.

 

The Gascon took a steadying breath as he approached the first line of combatants, aiming his pistol into the men across from them and discharging his weapon, feeling a small thrill of excitement when his target fell. Swiftly, he holstered his pistol and switched his blade to his dominant hand, reaching behind immediately to pull his main gauche with his left. In seconds, he’d crossed the distance between himself and the nearest Spanish soldier, stretching forward to slash the tip of his sword across the man’s exposed neck. He spun away from the dying man before even seeing him strike the ground, bringing his left hand around and piercing another’s side with his dagger.

 

He grunted as he pulled the short blade free, pushing the wounded man away from him as he brought his right arm up, this time to throw his elbow into someone unlucky enough to leave his side exposed to the Gascon. Another of his brothers gave a short nod of thanks as d’Artagnan’s hit allowed the other Musketeer to finish the man. Turning to his left, he sought Porthos, the large man thankfully fairly easy to spot even through the mass of movement. Seeing that his friend was still standing was enough, and d’Artagnan turned back to his own fight, striding forward two steps to engage another enemy combatant.

 

His muscles were beginning to burn with fatigue as the intensity of the battle dragged on, and he saw the same weariness beginning to show on the faces of the men they faced. It was an unusual moment of solidarity, reminding him that his opponents were ordinary men, just like him and his brothers. A heartbeat later, the moment was shattered as he ducked a swinging pistol butt that had been aimed for his head, lunging upwards seconds later to drive his main gauche underneath the man’s armor and into his soft belly. His opponent froze as d’Artagnan’s blade momentarily kept him on his feet, before falling, the Gascon tightening his hold on his dagger as the other man’s body pulled free of it.

 

Swivelling on his heel, he searched again for Porthos, this time seeing a small group of men gathered around the spot where his friend had last stood. The sight sent a flare of fear through his insides, and he immediately began to move towards them. Another enemy solder stepped into his path, and d’Artagnan clumsily blocked the strike, still hoping to catch a glimpse of the large Musketeer. He paid for his inattention when his foe slashed at him with his dagger, the Gascon biting down on a yelp of surprise as the sleeve of his doublet and the skin underneath was sliced open. With a flush of anger, the young man fought back, managing to land a blow to the soldier’s temple with the pommel of his sword.

 

As soon as he was free, he was moving forward again, still fearful of his friend’s condition. There! Porthos’ broad shoulders were shifting as he used a musket to strike any part of the men who surrounded him. Heads, arms, backs – it didn’t matter which – Porthos ruthlessly swung the heavy wood and iron bludgeon at anything he could reach. A grin appeared on d’Artagnan’s face at the sight of his friend’s windmilling arms, those around him obviously having no idea of the force they’d engaged. Seconds later, his relief evaporated as a soldier appeared at Porthos’ back, the man aiming at the Musketeer from only a few feet away before pulling the trigger.

 

The effect was instantaneous as Porthos appeared to have had his legs swept from underneath him. He collapsed immediately onto his front, with the soldiers around him scattering and moving on to find other opponents. d’Artagnan threw himself into a run, closing the gap between them in mere moments and landing on his knees next to his downed friend. Dropping his main gauche, his hand trembled above the hole he could see in Porthos’ armor. The entry point was low on the Musketeer’s back, to the right of his spine, and the Gascon hovered uncertainly as he tried to figure out what to do.

 

The sound of a nearby shot shook him from his fugue and he looked around quickly, confirming that the fighting had moved further away and he was safe for now. Releasing his sword as well, he pushed Porthos over onto his back, holding his panic at bay at the lax face that met him. Removing his right glove, he pressed his fingers against the insensate man’s throat, praying to feel the reassuring confirmation of his friend’s life. The beat he felt there was strong if too fast, and he exhaled shakily as he swiped at his damp hair with a hand.

 

Another look around revealed the majority of combatants moving away, and d’Artagnan made his decision when he saw none of his brothers-in-arms available to assist him. Standing, he sheathed his sword and main gauche before leaning over the injured man and pulling him to a seated position. Taking a deep breath, d’Artagnan heaved his friend upwards and onto his shoulder, staggering awkwardly under the weight until he was able to get his balance. Gritting his teeth, he held tightly onto Porthos and trudged towards their encampment where he could get the large man help.

 

His eyes scanned the battlefield as he stumbled, praying that no one noticed him and decided he was an easy target. His chest heaved with the strain of carrying Porthos’ weight and sweat poured from his brow, stinging his eyes when he was unable to blink it away. He could barely lift his feet, adopting a fast shuffling gait in his desperation to get back to the safety of his brothers as quickly as possible. Suddenly, there was another at his side, his view partially blocked by the body he carried. The other man’s hands steadied him and guided him forward, and d’Artagnan was incredibly grateful.

 

Several more steps and he was being stopped and ordered to release his burden, “You did well, d’Artagnan. Now put him down so I can have a look,” Aramis commanded, needing to check on their friend.

 

Between the two of them, they managed to get Porthos lying on the ground, the medic immediately searching for an injury. When he couldn’t see one, he looked questioningly up at d’Artagnan who breathlessly replied, “On his back; lower, right side.” Aramis began to immediately fumble with Porthos’ armour, pulling it free and then motioning for the Gascon’s help. Together, they rolled the injured man slightly onto his left side, revealing a deep patch of red exactly where the young man had said it would be.

 

“Right,” Aramis allowed Porthos to settle onto his back again. “Help me get him to the medical tent.”

 

The medic carried Porthos’ shoulders while d’Artagnan took his feet. As soon as they entered the tent, they settled him onto an empty bed and began stripping him of his supplies, belts, doublet and armour. Aramis tugged at their friend’s shirt, confirming his earlier suspicion – there was no exit wound. With a vile curse, the medic began issuing orders to have the items he’d need brought. At the look of confusion on the Gascon’s face, Aramis tugged a hand through his tangled curls as he explained, “The ball’s still in him; I need to dig it out if he’s to have any hope of surviving.”


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In times like these, when each coming day was uncertain, it was comforting to have one’s friends close by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great reaction to the last chapter, and to those who shared their thoughts through comments, or have left kudos. Hope you enjoy this next part.

d’Artagnan had stumbled from the tent on trembling legs, the vision of Aramis’ fingers digging around in Porthos’ back refusing to be forgotten. At first, the large man had remained unconscious, but the pain of having a knife slicing into the wound had brought him around, and the cries of agony that he’d been unable to contain had made the Gascon grind his teeth until he expected his jaw to crack. Aramis had been relentless, only issuing a curt order to “hold him” when his patient’s movements threatened to dislodge his blade. Porthos had passed out again before the lead projectile had been pulled from his body, and d’Artagnan found himself mesmerized by the dark red that had pooled and bubbled from the entry wound.

 

Aramis had a manic look in his eyes by the time he’d extracted the bullet, swiftly dousing the wound with wine before returning to search for any bits of fibre and dirt that might cause infection. When they’d finished, Porthos was lying unconscious on his stomach, his breathing shallow and pained while d’Artagnan walked away feeling completely done in. Aramis settled himself on a stool at the injured man’s side and made it obvious that he had no intention of leaving. The Gascon took his friend’s actions to mean that he would be left with the daunting task of reporting Porthos’ injury to their Captain.

 

Although he was their commanding officer, Athos was first and foremost their friend. d’Artagnan had seem some of the anguish in his mentor’s eyes each time he’d had to order his friends onto the battlefield, and he dreaded now having to inform the older man of Porthos’ condition. Aramis’ report following the surgery had been brief and not at all optimistic. Porthos was weak, having lost a great deal of blood, and infection was nearly certain – there were no guarantees he could offer regarding the wounded man’s future.

 

d’Artagnan pressed his fingers into his gritty eyes, dropping the hand a moment later when he felt the residual shaking, closing it into a fist in an attempt to make the trembling subside. Steeling himself, he walked towards Athos’ command tent, knowing that the man would be either inside or nearby until all of their forces had returned. The Captain was speaking with another man and the Gascon waited until he’d finished, Athos turning and catching his gaze. d’Artagnan stood and waited for his mentor to evaluate his appearance, holding his words until he was called forward with a wave of the older man’s hand.

 

“Report,” Athos ordered, the word clipped and full of tension at the expression on the Gascon’s face.

 

“Sir,” the young man began, only to lower his voice and begin again. “Athos, Porthos has been shot. Aramis is with him and he’s removed the ball, but his condition seems dire.”

 

d’Artagnan was impressed at his friend’s ability to maintain a calm, outward demeanor even though he’d seen the flicker of fear that had appeared in Athos’ eyes at the news. “This is Aramis’ opinion?”

 

They had a physician with them, but the man was more butcher than doctor, focused on severing limbs in order to stave off infection, rather than providing any sort of sympathetic care to his charges. The Gascon knew that Athos held the medical man in contempt and would take Aramis’ word over the physician’s, especially when it came to those closest to him. “Yes, Captain, it is,” the young man replied.

 

Athos gave a short nod, unable to walk away from his duties no matter how badly he wanted to. “Thank you. I will come and check on him as soon as I’m able.”

 

d’Artagnan dipped his chin in reply, beginning to turn and move away, only to pause as he realized he had no idea of what to do next. The Captain’s voice caught his attention as he spoke once more, “Do you have any injuries that need to be tended?”

 

The Gascon brought his left arm up, for the first time noticing the trail of blood that had made its way down the back of his hand and painted his fingers. With everything that had happened, the sting of the cut had faded into the background, only to come rushing back now as he was reminded of its presence. Seeing the young man’s puzzled expression, Athos softened his voice as he suggested, “Why don’t you get yourself cleaned up and have Aramis take a look at that?”

 

d’Artagnan didn’t think the wound was overly severe, and hated the thought of disturbing the medic while the man sat at Porthos’ side. He was about to say so to Athos when he noticed the vulnerability in the older man’s eyes. Athos needed him to do this, not for himself, but for his mentor’s peace of mind. “Yes, Captain,” he quietly agreed, dropping his eyes and retreating, navigating the various tents until he’d reached the one he shared with Aramis and Porthos.

 

It was cool and dark inside and he gratefully collapsed onto his pallet as the last of his energy deserted him. He let his arms rest on his knees, his hands dangling loosely as he breathed in the silence around him. He’d never minded the noise of the city, even during his early days in Paris, having revelled in the energy that seemed to flow through its streets. It wasn’t until he’d experienced the overwhelming sounds of battle that he came to treasure those moments in which sound was absent, the quiet blanketing him and soothing his soul.

 

On the previous occasions when they’d exited the battlefield, their moods had always been cautiously optimistic, d’Artagnan, Aramis and Porthos congregating and then waiting for the final counts to come in as they prayed for the survival of their brothers-in-arms. When the news of casualties arrived, they invariably assisted with those closest to the unfortunate men, rallying around them in their grief even as their own hearts sang in relief at their own foursome’s continued wellbeing. This was far from the first time that any of them had been hurt, but it was the first time the Gascon had seen one of his friends drop in battle. Thinking back on the sight of Porthos falling, d’Artagnan clenched his eyes tightly as he prayed never to have to witness such an event again.

 

He had no idea how long he sat there, completely lost in his thoughts as Porthos’ blood dried on his hands and clothes. It wasn’t until Moulin ducked his head in to ask if he’d been to see Aramis yet, that he was pulled from his thoughts, realizing that Athos must have sent the man to check on him. With a shake of his head, he promised to head directly over and the Musketeer withdrew, offering a soft smile of support as he left. Wearily, d’Artagnan stood, removing his armour and doublet before ruefully fingering the slice in his shirtsleeve. He’d only brought two spares with him and doubted the blood would ever come out, but he would add it to the garrison’s laundry and see if the washer women could do anything with it.

 

He settled for rolling the sleeve up so that Aramis could have access to the cut underneath, and was surprised at the length of the tacky wound; hopefully the medic would still be focused on Porthos’ condition, and he would be spared a lecture for having left it so long. Taking advantage of the bucket of clean water they kept, he scrubbed the blood from his hands and then splashed his face, before wiping both in the hem of his shirt. With a steadying breath, he exited and made his way back to the medical tent, hoping that Porthos would look better than he had earlier.

 

Inside the large tent, nothing much had changed although d’Artagnan noted that a greater number of beds were occupied than before. He winced at the amount when he realized that today’s skirmish had been by far their worst day, and they’d paid for it with the blood of their brothers. Nodding to the men who were aware enough to notice, he wove his way through the cots until he’d reached Porthos’, Aramis still sitting next to the injured man. As he got closer, he could see the medic’s lips moving, and the sight brought a smile to his face as he assumed Porthos must be awake. Several more steps, however, found him staring at the large man’s lax face, and he realized that Aramis must have been hoping that his words would pull their friend back to awareness.

 

Although it seemed an unnecessary question, d’Artagnan asked it anyway, “How is he doing?”

 

Aramis paused in his monologue and took a breath, his eyes meeting the Gascon’s as he replied, “No change, for now.”

 

d’Artagnan swallowed with difficulty at the despair in the marksman’s eyes, his last words clearly indicating his expectation that things would become far worse. The young man gave a small nod as he attempted to adopt an optimistic tone. “He’s strong; I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

 

The medic held d’Artagnan’s gaze for several long seconds, to the point that the Gascon was almost ready to look away, before Aramis broke the look, giving a short, unenthusiastic nod of agreement.

 

Needing to interrupt the awkward silence, the young man asked, “Has Athos been by?”

 

The question seemed to remind the medic of something and he looked back at the Gascon as he answered, “Yes. He seemed to think that you needed me to look at your arm?”

 

d’Artagnan glanced down at his left arm as he raised it from his side, glancing back at the marksman as he explained, “Sorry; forgot.”

 

Aramis recognized the shell-shocked look in the Gascon’s eyes and didn’t comment, knowing fully how difficult it was to become accustomed to the sounds and images of war. Mustering a faint smile, he replied, “Why don’t you get another stool and I’ll have a look at it now.”

 

The young man dipped his head in agreement, finding himself a seat and positioning it in front of his friend so the man wouldn’t need to leave Porthos’ side. He allowed his arm to be grasped, and looked away as Aramis examined it, his fingers pulling at the edges of the split skin to peer inside and evaluate the depth of the cut. “Not too bad, but it’ll heal best with some stitches.” d’Artagnan nodded without looking back, giving his silent permission to proceed.

 

As Aramis worked, the Gascon tried to distract himself with conversation, the feeling of having a wound cleaned and sewn never a pleasant experience. “How did Athos look when you saw him?”

 

He felt the needle pause halfway through his skin, and bit his lip against the desire to pull away from the sensation. Moments later, the thin length of steel was pushed through and the medic responded, “Tired. He carries a great weight and I fear that one day it may crush him.”

 

The marksman’s answer was far from reassuring, but d’Artagnan agreed that it seemed an accurate enough assessment. “Do you think there’s anything we can do to help?”

 

The question had Aramis grinning softly in spite of himself, the Gascon’s need to ease his friends’ suffering so blessedly normal when everything else around them had been thrown into turmoil. Tying off the last stitch, he replied, “Just be there for him. It’s likely that he’ll push himself until he falls from exhaustion; it’s our job to see that doesn’t happen.”

 

The answer seemed to satisfy d’Artagnan and he waited quietly as Aramis bound his forearm in fresh, white linen. “There,” the medic announced when he’d finished. “Make sure you change the bandages daily and check for infection.” The latter part of his advice was especially important, and they both understood that just as many men succumbed to infection as those who died on the battlefield.

 

Aramis expected that the young man would leave and seek Athos out now that his arm had been tended, but he sat silently until the medic glanced over at him, one eyebrow raised questioningly. Looking somewhat uncomfortable, d’Artagnan cleared his throat as he queried, “And what do you need?”

 

The question caught Aramis by surprise, even though he’d just been reflecting on the young man’s propensity to care for his friends. Softening his expression, the medic gave a shrug as he said, “I need my friends to be alright.” His gaze shifted to Porthos’ still form and d’Artagnan rose, pausing for a moment to squeeze Aramis’ shoulder.

 

“I’ll go check on Athos and see when he’ll be free; then I’ll be back to sit with you. Afterwards, we’ll eat dinner together in our tent,” the Gascon stated.

 

Before he could think about it, Aramis found himself replying, “Alright.”

 

With another squeeze of his shoulder, d’Artagnan left and the medic found himself looking forward to his friend’s return. In times like these, when each coming day was uncertain, it was comforting to have one’s friends close by. 

* * *

Athos had retired to his tent, it being one of the few where a small table and chair could be found, and the Captain was hunched over it now, reviewing a piece of parchment paper by candlelight. He’d been given the list just a short time ago, and had decided against reviewing it before visiting Porthos. Aramis had confirmed d’Artagnan’s earlier words, and Athos could clearly see the worry and strain in every crease of the medic’s handsome face. He’d remained for a while, moving among the wounded to offer words of encouragement to those who could hear, before taking himself back to his tent to read the list of names that sat heavily on the paper inside his doublet.

 

He’d known that the tide had turned in Spain’s favour that day, and the number of wounded inside the medical tent only reinforced that conclusion. Now, as he reviewed the parchment in front of him, he felt the weight of responsibility settling on him. Of the combined forces present, they’d lost over thirty men that day and Athos felt a momentary pang of guilt as he noted that only seven of them were Musketeers. The remaining number represented a mix of the comte’s private militia and Captain Foucon’s combined cavalry and infantry. Despite the low numbers, he recognized that it was still a significant amount, given the relatively small force fighting at the chateau. While they had been tasked with recapturing the comte’s estate, the majority of their men were dispatched several miles away on another front.

 

The new captain could not help but feel relieved that his regiment had thus far had few losses, even though nearly half had been injured in some manner. Of those wounded, only a handful had suffered serious injuries, but the fact that Porthos was among those made Athos’ hand clench around the paper he held. The Musketeers usually numbered around 150 men, but the past year had seen their numbers dwindle to just over 130. Of those, nearly a third had remained on other missions or in Paris to continue guarding the King. When they’d marched from the city several weeks ago, he’d had 90 able-bodied men, but after the day’s events, Athos estimated that figure to be closer to 70.

 

The land they fought over was in the north where Spain had made significant inroads, even having captured a chateau and converting it to their command post. The owner, Comte de la Grange, had fought valiantly to keep it, but had ultimately withdrawn when his defeat became obvious. He’d brought his militia with him and added his forces to those of the King, his men now fighting side by side with the Musketeers. Still, Athos feared their numbers might be too few to turn the tide against the Spanish who seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of men. While weapons were important, he knew well that in most cases, the side with the greatest numbers would eventually emerge the victor.

 

He was pulled from his melancholy ruminations by the sound of someone clearing their voice and he looked up, surprised to find d’Artagnan standing in the entryway. Glancing down at the crumpled parchment in his hand, he willed his fingers to loosen as he addressed his visitor, “Yes, d’Artagnan?”

 

The Gascon’s eyes were momentarily drawn to the paper in Athos’ hands, and the latter made a concerted effort to release it, placing it back on his desk. Returning his gaze to his friend, d’Artagnan said, “I was wondering when you’d be free for dinner.”

 

Athos’ eyes dropped once more to the wrinkled parchment, his mind already thinking about the letters he would need to write. “I still have much to do, d’Artagnan,” he began, preparing to make his excuses.

 

“There will always be something more to do, but you will not be able to do it if your health suffers because you didn’t take time to eat,” the young man neatly countered, having fully expected the older man’s response. The Gascon could sense that Athos was unconvinced so he forged ahead, “It would be good for us to be together this evening, would it not?” He didn’t directly refer to Porthos’ condition, but knew his mentor would understand regardless. He was proven correct a moment later when Athos offered a small nod in reply.

 

“Alright,” the Captain agreed. “Give me an hour and then I’ll come join you.”

 

d’Artagnan’s eyes flickered back to the list before he countered, “Or you could come with me now, and after dinner, Aramis and I will help you with your letters.”

 

Athos drew in a sharp breath at the Gascon’s compassionate and perceptive offer, but he knew that this was a task he needed to complete on his own. It was his duty and his burden to bear, and he gave a slight shake of his head as he said, “As much as I appreciate the offer, I cannot accept.” The look in his eyes pleaded with the young man to understand and, after a moment’s consideration, d’Artagnan acquiesced.

 

“Alright,” the young man agreed. “But if you’re not there in an hour, I’ll tell Aramis you haven’t been looking after yourself.”

 

Athos’ lips quirked with a faint smile as he dipped his chin, “Very well. I’ll see you in one hour.”

                                                                                                                            

d’Artagnan returned his friend’s smile before retreating from the tent, comfortable that for now, at least, his friend was handling the weight of his responsibilities well. Feeling marginally lighter, he set out for the medical tent in order to fulfill his promise to Aramis, after which the three of them would share a meal, not as soldiers, but as friends.


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No,” he pleaded, “I won’t help you if you kill him. He lives or there’s no deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks for the lovely comments in response to the last chapter. Here's a slightly longer one as we see how the boys are doing.

They shared a simple meal in the relative solitude of their tent, even though everyone knew where to find Athos, should he be needed, the man never really off-duty. Once they’d finished eating, Aramis pulled out a bottle of brandy from one of his bags, and poured generous measures out for everyone before settling himself back on the edge of his pallet. After a few sips of the amber liquid, he broached the conversation that had been playing on his mind since earlier that day. “The Spanish forces seem to be gaining ground.” The statement got Athos’ attention and he met the marksman’s gaze, waiting for him to continue. “Will there be reinforcements?”

 

The Captain should be keeping those details to himself, but the friend in Athos needed an outlet, seeking to unburden himself if only a little. “There has been no news of additional forces.” Aramis’ penetrating stare had the older man adding, “And no indication that we should withdraw.”

 

Athos looked down at the dark liquid in his cup, seemingly mesmerized by the tawny-colored drink. It was often the case in situations such as these that regiments were deployed to a particular spot where they remained until either successful or decimated by the opposition. Those in Paris would receive impersonal reports with tallies of the dead and wounded, but their distance made them coldly objective, not caring for the individual men who suffered under their command. It was still early days, the former comte allowed, but to his mind, the losses they’d incurred were already too high. Taking back the chateau that was at the heart of their objective would require many more lives – lives that were a finite and precious resource, and one that Athos was already struggling to part with.

 

Softening his tone, Aramis asked, “You’ve written to Treville?” In his new position as Minister of War, the former Captain was the only one who might be able to help them, but it would be dangerous to ask for too many favours, too early on in the conflict.

 

Moistening his mouth with a drink of brandy, Athos replied, “I’ve made him fully aware of the situation and provided my own recommendations.” Choosing his words carefully, he went on, “The King and his generals seem to have ideas to the contrary.”

 

The statement seemed to awaken d’Artagnan who’d so far stayed silent, listening to the two older men’s discussion. “Don’t they care about those who are hurt and dying?” His tone reflected his disbelief, and Aramis wondered idly if he’d ever sounded as young as the Gascon.

 

“It is a matter of politics,” Athos responded, knowing his answer was sorely lacking, but having no other to offer.

 

“And when we are all dead and their objective remains out of reach?” the Gascon countered in outrage, his mind again conjuring the image of Porthos being shot.

 

Seeing Athos’ discomfort, Aramis offered a reply, trying to make light of it by shrugging offhandedly, “They’ll hire mercenaries and conscript who they need; there are no pleasantries in war.”

 

d’Artagnan looked to the Captain, who didn’t dispute the marksman’s claim, instead taking another sip of his drink in agreement. The young man had nothing he could add, having heard stories of men being forced to march in the King’s name in the past. Often, there would be little choice, with existing soldiers rounding up all of the able-bodied men they could find, decimating entire families and villages in the process. The Gascon could not fathom what that would be like. He was no fan of the war, but he was there by choice, living the life he’d picked with full knowledge that his decision would likely cut his life short. To be forced into fighting, however, disturbed him deeply, conflicting with the very reason he became a soldier in the first place – to protect those who could not protect themselves.

 

His hand trembling slightly with the stresses of the day, d’Artagnan took a long swallow, grimacing at the burn of the fiery drink in his throat and belly. He looked back to his friends, grateful for their patience with him as he came to terms with what he’d heard, slowly adjusting the less-known horrors of war. The older men’s faces showed nothing but compassion and, for a moment, the Gascon felt shame at having looked forward to the glory and thrill of battle. One by one, his misconceptions were being corrected, and he wondered how the others had managed to tolerate his enthusiasm as they’d marched.

 

As if sensing his thoughts, Aramis spoke, “Being at war is impossible to fully understand until one has experienced it.”

 

Giving a slow nod as he raised his cup, Athos concurred, “It is a lesson I hoped you might avoid.”

 

The older man’s comment brought a frown to d’Artagnan’s face, uncertain if it was brought on by protectiveness or a concern for his inexperience. Before he could clarify, another’s head appeared in the doorway, the newcomer’s gaze swiftly landing on Athos. The Captain was already rising, passing his cup back to Aramis as he moved to follow the new arrival out. “Get some sleep,” he ordered, holding the medic’s eye for a moment until his friend dipped his chin in acknowledgement. Glancing briefly at d’Artagnan next, he added, “That goes for you, too.”

 

Ducking slightly to pass through the tent flap, he was gone, and Aramis and the Gascon were left alone. Several seconds passed before d’Artagnan caught the medic’s gaze, “Go and sit with him now; I’ll be by in four hours to relieve you.”

 

Aramis’ lips quirked mildly but he didn’t reply, simply tipping his cup to empty it, before putting it and the bottle of brandy away. Repeating Athos’ words, he said, “Make sure you get some sleep.” d’Artagnan gave a nod and watched as the other man left, feeling the rush of loneliness that seemed to fill the space in his friends’ absence. He looked down into his cup, seeing the amber liquid that had somehow lost its appeal. He’d known that things would be difficult at the front, but acknowledged now that he may not have been as prepared as he’d thought for the harsh reality they now faced.

 

Even when others among them had fallen, d’Artagnan had naively assumed that their group would be safe, somehow protected from the heartbreak of having a brother fall. The events of the day had served to cruelly dispel that illusion, and listening to Athos and Aramis speak had served to only further drive home the seriousness of their situation. There would be no additional men riding to their rescue, and there would be no strategic retreats. Their days would be spent throwing themselves at the enemy until one or the other emerged victorious and, after today, he felt shaken in his profound belief that that title would be theirs.

 

While the Musketeers were the more disciplined, skilled soldiers, the Spanish had the weight of numbers on their size, and the French forces would eventually be overrun by the sheer might of the men they faced. d’Artagnan had meant to ask about their orders for the next day, wondering if they’d again be deployed to attack, or whether the large canons would spend a day or two attempting to strip the Spanish of their fortifications before additional men were thrown into the fray. He hoped that it would be the latter, needing to spend some time by Porthos’ side as they waited to see if their friend would recover.

 

The wound on the large man’s back had been horrific, and the Gascon understood how difficult it had been for Aramis to dig around in Porthos’ body for the elusive ball. It would have been better if the projectile had passed through, and the thought made the Gascon wonder what part of the injured man’s body had prevented the ball from doing so. Seconds after Aramis had successfully pulled the piece of lead free, d’Artagnan had seen the unadulterated fear in his friend’s eyes and, in that instant, his faith that Porthos would pull through faltered. The medic had been quick to recover, making a glib comment about the toughness of the injured man’s skin, but it hadn’t been quick enough for the Gascon to miss the fact that Aramis was very, very worried about their friend.

 

God, what if Porthos died, he wondered, his breath stuttering for a moment as he allowed himself to consider the thought that had been quietly lurking at the edges of his mind all day. He’d always known that their lives were dangerous, and they’d all had close encounters in the past, but miraculously they’d always survived. He simply couldn’t fathom a reality in which that might change. Surely Porthos was far too strong to be taken down by a small piece of lead, and Aramis was certainly far too stubborn and skilled to allow the man to die without a fight. And yet, he considered, it was entirely out of their hands.

 

A few days earlier he’d watched as two of his brothers-in-arms had gathered around their third, cajoling, ordering and finally begging the man to get better. Despite their unflagging support, Didier had died of his wounds and d’Artagnan had observed the man’s friends weep like children over their brother’s body. The memory made his throat constrict uncomfortably as he swallowed against his own tears. He knew, without a doubt, that if Porthos were to leave them, he and the others would make Didier’s friends’ mourning pale in comparison.

 

Scrubbing a trembling hand across his face, he drew a steadying breath, no longer wanting to contemplate Porthos' uncertain fate. He threw the rest of his drink back, relishing the burn and hoping it would dull his senses enough for him to sleep. Realistically, he knew the alcohol wouldn’t be enough, but tried to convince himself otherwise as he tiredly undressed and arranged himself in his pallet. Forcing his anxious mind to calm, he closed his eyes and prayed for a few hours’ rest before he went to relieve Aramis at their injured friend’s side.

* * *

They’d received three days’ respite from the fighting, the canons booming unceasingly throughout the daylight hours. It had been a blessing that had allowed Aramis and d’Artagnan to continually remain at Porthos’ side as he battled infection and pain so severe it had him retching helplessly each time he awoke. The medic had done everything in his power to ease the large man’s suffering, but the draught he brewed barely touched Porthos’ agony, so they sat by his side, holding his hand, speaking unceasingly until he passed out again.

 

There was only one other who was as critically wounded as their friend, and Aramis had returned earlier with news that the man would soon die. The information had pulled the medic even further into his despondency, his medical knowledge a burden that would not allow him to delude himself about Porthos’ chances. Athos came by when he was able, but his many duties required him to spend hours in consultation with the other commanding officers, planning not only for battle, but also for the continued operation of the camp, a feat in and of itself. On the third evening of their vigil, the Captain had joined them, sharing the news that the following day they would once more go into battle.

 

Both men could see how much the decision weighed on Athos as the older man’s gaze sat firmly fixed on Porthos’ glistening, sweat slicked back. Reaching out, he rested a hand on the large man’s shoulder, feeling the minute tremors that racked him, even in sleep. When he looked up again, d’Artagnan could see the deep sorrow in his mentor’s eyes, and he ached to try and comfort the man, but recognized that this was not the time or the place. Above all, Athos worked hard to maintain his stoic and confident façade, and any attempts on the Gascon’s part to console him would not be appreciated. Instead, by silent agreement, the three stayed by Porthos’ side throughout the night, unwilling to spend any time apart before the next day’s skirmish.

 

The morning began very much the same way that their previous engagements had, and once the order was given to fire, d’Artagnan carefully picked out his target and ensured the man fell before he began to advance. Aramis was again covering their rear, his superior marksmanship helping to tip the odds in their favour, if only marginally. It didn’t take long for the Gascon to meet his first opponent, and he channeled all of his worry and despair over Porthos into making his sword fly as he sliced and struck and parried. Soon, his blood was singing with the heat of battle, and optimism was pushing away the shroud of melancholy that had been plaguing him since his friend’s injury.

 

As euphoria began to take hold, he understood why some men spoke fondly of war, his mind and body feeling sharper and more alive than they had in days. He felt invincible, and the feeling was reinforced as he gutted another man with his blade, tugging hard to pull it free from the skin and sinew that tried to hold it. Although he wasn’t aware of it, he now wore a manic grin, his white teeth contrasting sharply with the red on his face which spoke of his numerous kills. As he turned, another attacked from the side, and d’Artagnan struggled to raise his sword in time, stunned when his opponent neatly twisted it out of his hands.

 

The first inkling of fear stirred in his belly as he glanced in the fallen blade’s direction, cursing inwardly when he realized it was out of reach. His attacker didn’t care and was already stepping forward to finish him, and the Gascon swiftly shifted his main gauche to his right hand in order to block the man’s next blow. Stumbling backwards a step to give himself some room, d’Artagnan’s eyes scanned his surroundings in search of another weapon, his short dagger nothing more than a stop-gap measure that would buy him a few seconds. Another thrust from his opponent had his blade spinning away, and he side-stepped awkwardly to avoid the subsequent strike.

 

His foe was grinning now, realizing the Musketeer’s vulnerable state. At the same time, d’Artagnan’s eyes had landed on the pistol in the man’s belt, and he ducked low under the Spaniard’s blade to reach for it, praying the man hadn’t already spent his charge. Lifting it to eye-level, he wasted no time in pulling the trigger. With a flash of sparks and a plume of smoke, the weapon discharged, sending the Gascon reeling.

 

Behind him, Aramis was running, his cry of anger announcing his presence to d’Artagnan’s opponent. The enemy Spaniard had only a moment to register the crazed Musketeer running in his direction before the marksman’s ball plowed into his skull, dropping him instantly. Others were beginning to notice now and were converging on Aramis as he continued to fight his way to the Gascon’s side. He’d seen the young man cutting his way through the enemy’s lines and had noticed when overconfidence had crept its way into d’Artagnan’s approach. In that moment, he’d dropped the musket he was holding and had thundered onto the field, meeting little resistance since the majority of the fighting was still ahead of him.

 

He’d arrived in time to save d’Artagnan from being cut in half by the man who’d disarmed him, but it seemed now that he might still be too late. As if in slow motion, he’d watched the young man steal his attacker’s pistol and pull the trigger, only to have the weapon backfire and blow up in his face. d’Artagnan had swayed and Aramis had expected him to fall, but a moment later a Spaniard on horseback had arrived, swinging his sword pommel at the back of the unsuspecting Gascon’s head. The young man’s body seemed to waver in place before deciding on a direction as gravity exerted itself, and he crumpled gracelessly to the ground to land on his front.

 

After days of sitting and worrying at Porthos’ side, the sight of another friend falling sent Aramis into a frenzy and he threw himself forward with the express goal of reaching the still young man. He was shocked when his forward momentum was stopped, his arms suddenly gripped by two others. Swivelling his head from side to side in an attempt to understand what had happened he took note of the two soldiers who now held him. “No, you have to let me go to him,” he pleaded, recognizing the desperation in his voice, not even realizing that he’d spoken in French and was unlikely to be understood. When the men holding him merely tightened their hold, his face turned ugly as he growled, “Release me.”

 

Aramis looked up into the mildly amused face of the mounted Spanish soldier as a shadow landed across him. The man stared down at him dispassionately for several seconds before speaking in barely-accented French, “You believe you can save your friend?”

 

The marksman didn’t hesitate as he nodded, “Yes, if I can get to him in time.” Aramis realized that his fear for the Gascon might work against him, but he prayed that the Spaniard wouldn’t have asked if he was planning to simply kill them outright.

 

The rider took a moment to consider before nodding, and Aramis found himself suddenly free. He moved immediately to close the distance between himself and d’Artagnan, kneeling beside the young man and placing a hand on his head. He felt the telltale tackiness of blood immediately and lifted his fingers away, momentarily mesmerized by the bright red before coming back to his senses. With a hand on the Gascon’s shoulder and another at his hip, Aramis rolled the limp body over onto its back. The area around d’Artagnan’s eyes was red and sore looking, and the marksman winced in sympathy. This time, his fingers reached for d’Artagnan’s throat, searching for a pulse.

 

When he found it, he slumped in relief, grateful that he wasn’t destined to report the young man’s death to his friends. The Gascon was alive but hurt, and Aramis reached instinctively for the bag that hung across his shoulder, pausing as one of the Spanish soldiers ordered him to stop. Looking up to meet the rider’s gaze, he said, “I just want to wrap his injuries.” Holding up the strap of his bag, he indicated, “I have bandages in here.”

 

The Spaniard dipped his chin in agreement and Aramis proceeded to pull a length of linen from his supplies, gently wrapping the bandage around d’Artagnan’s head, covering his face from the bridge of his nose to his forehead. When he’d finished, the marksman dropped his hands and looked again at the Spaniard, waiting to see what would happen next.

 

“You are a doctor?” the rider asked with interest.

 

“No,” Aramis replied, “but I have some knowledge of medicine.” The admission was a gamble, and he hoped it might keep them safe since there seemed to be only two options currently open to them – be killed or become prisoners.

 

The Spaniard nodded thoughtfully, “We have need of a doctor. Will you help?”

 

The idea of assisting the same men who’d been slaughtering his brothers-in-arms made Aramis’ stomach roll, but with his agreement, he hoped to save the Gascon. Rising carefully, he held his hands away from his body in supplication as he replied, “Yes, I’ll help.”

 

The man above him gave a dangerous smile, “Good. I am pleased that you are so reasonable.” Turning to the other soldiers, he commanded, “Kill the other one.”

 

Aramis’ response was immediate as he sprang forward in an effort to attack the Spaniard, but he was caught once more from behind and held tightly. “No,” he pleaded, “I won’t help you if you kill him. He lives or there’s no deal.”

 

The rider took a moment to consider the Musketeer before agreeing, “Very well; he will come with us.”

 

“No,” Aramis protested again, needing d’Artagnan to be left behind so that the regiment could find him and bring him back to their camp. “You have no need of an injured man.”

 

The Spaniard was grinning broadly now as he answered, “What you say is true, but I think you will be much more cooperative with your friend’s life in the balance.” He nudged his horse into motion, swinging it back towards the chateau that towered over their battleground.

 

Aramis found his arms being bound tightly with rope, and watched helplessly as two others lifted the Gascon from the ground and threw him roughly across the back of the Spaniard’s horse. As the beast began to move away, the marksman had no choice but to follow, and he sent up a silent prayer that Athos would forgive him for what he was about to do.


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos stumbled blindly toward the side of a tent, leaning heavily against one of the poles as he slid along its length to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was wonderful to read everyone's thoughts on the turn of events in the last chapter, and I hope you'll enjoy what happens next.

The time immediately following a skirmish seemed to stretch the longest, as Athos had to wait for reports to come regarding the injured and dead. It was in the first couple of hours as well that one of his brothers would make their way to him and let him know that everyone was safe, before turning back to help with the efforts of retrieving any of their brothers-in-arms who had fallen, and collecting usable weapons from the battlefield.

 

Athos cursed the fact that he was dependant on others for news, but the area in front of him would not properly clear for some time yet, the haze from the discharged powder making it seem as though he was peering into a cloud. He did his best to maintain his composure, but it had been some time since the last of the guns had fired, and there was still no sign of either of his friends.

 

Slowly, he paced, following a track in the ground that took him six steps in one direction and then the same number back. After each circuit, he would pause and look across the field before him, straining his eyes in the hope that he would recognize one of the approaching men as his brothers. When he was disappointed, he would begin the slow pacing once more, keeping one ear on the conversation around him in case his attention was needed by the many men who scurried back and forth.

 

He was startled when Moulin approached, a piece of parchment clutched in one hand which he extended out to the Captain. At Athos’ raised eyebrow, the Musketeer clarified, “Today’s wounded and dead, Sir.”

 

The former comte took the paper with a trembling hand, forcing himself to keep his voice steady as he breathed out a quiet, “Thank you.” As the Musketeer stepped away, Athos looked over the list quickly, searching for his friends’ names while at the same time praying he wouldn’t find them. A first scan of the tally eased the steel band around his chest while a second review had him frowning in confusion. Striding swiftly to Moulin’s side, he asked, “Is this everyone?”

 

The Musketeer seemed puzzled, but replied without comment, “Yes, Captain. The injured men are already in the medical tent.”

 

Athos turned abruptly and made his way to their makeshift infirmary, ignoring the faces of those around him who seemed startled by his passing. Inside, he paused for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust before moving through the cots, his gaze constantly shifting from one man to the next. Nothing. His heart was beating wildly now with is inability to find Aramis and d’Artagnan, and he quelled the little voice in his head that suggested perhaps the two were dead. He left the tent just as quickly as he’d arrived, sparing only the briefest glance in Porthos’ direction to confirm the man’s condition remained unchanged.

 

With a steadying breath, he made his way toward the dead, preparing himself to search through the bodies for two men who were as close to him as his own flesh and blood. He swallowed thickly when he arrived, ignoring the buzzing of flies that always seemed to accompany death. With a shaking hand, he revealed the face of each dead man, his anxiety growing instead of waning with each lax expression that was exposed. Still nothing.

 

Athos’ emotions were waffling between relief and concern, the fact that he’d been unable to find his friends among the injured or dead a positive sign, but still leaving him without the knowledge that the men were safe. Removing his hat for a moment, he tiredly pulled a hand through his tangled curls, considering whether or not he could take the time to venture onto the battlefield. He was relatively confident in his regiment’s ability to bring in all of their fallen brothers, but what if his friends had somehow been missed? Replacing his hat on his head, he allowed a frustrated sigh to escape, steeling himself to return to the frontlines where he needed his mask firmly in place.

 

He’d only managed a handful of steps before being stopped by LaRue, the tall Musketeer accompanied by another who he recognized as wearing the pauldron of the Comte de la Grange’s private militia. “Captain,” LaRue began, “Soulier has important information that you need to hear.”

 

Turning his attention to the other soldier, Athos waited for the man to speak. “Sir, two of your men were taken by the Spanish. One managed the walk on his own, but the other was taken away on horseback.”

 

Athos knew his expression was dumbfounded and his mind raced with the possibility that Soulier had just solved the mystery of his two missing friends. Adopting a calm he didn’t feel, he asked, “How do you know these men were Musketeers?”

 

The militiaman looked uncomfortable as he replied, “One of them helped us with our wounded this past week and his friend, the young one, was often at his side. Both wore the pauldrons of your regiment.” Soulier paused at the Captain’s wan features before adding, “It looked like the medic was walking on his own.”

 

With the soldier’s report, Athos thought his knees might buckle, the description provided leaving only one conclusion – Aramis. The young man at his side would be d’Artagnan, since the two spent the majority of their free time together when not with Porthos. Inhaling shakily, he questioned, “Where were they taken?”

 

“To the chateau, Sir,” Soulier answered, confirming what Athos had already deduced.

 

“Thank you,” he murmured, his heart racing in his chest. The two men gave a brief dip of their heads before retreating, and Athos stumbled blindly toward the side of a tent, leaning heavily against one of the poles as he slid along its length to the ground. Drawing his knees up towards his chest, he cradled his head in his hands at the horrific turn of events. As if it wasn’t bad enough that Porthos lay fighting for his life, now his other two brothers had been taken by the Spanish, their condition uncertain and d’Artagnan injured badly enough that he was unable to walk on his own.

 

It was not unheard of that men were taken prisoner, but it was unusual when those men were common foot soldiers, though Athos would argue that there was nothing common about his friends. Still, the enemy would typically target officers, seeking to remove those in command in an effort to leave the men following disorganized and without direction. Odder yet was the fact that only two had been taken, providing almost no leverage in any type of negotiation. Try as he might, he was unable to fathom any reasonable explanation for the capture of his friends.

 

Despite that lack of understanding, Athos was clear on the fact that the men would need to be rescued, and he was unwilling to wait for any sort of invitation to barter for his brothers’ lives. Normally he would simply go to Porthos and have a willing compatriot at this side, but now the other man’s participation was not an option and he would need to convince his fellow officers of the need to mount a rescue. He considered the others he was stationed with, landing on the Comte de la Grange first as the most likely supporter. The noble had a personal stake in retaking his home, and his militia were well-trained and fearless soldiers. Additionally, the comte would be able to provide valuable insights into their plan of attack, his knowledge of the chateau’s weak points improving their odds of success.

 

Dubois commanded the cavalry, and while he was a serious and reasonable man, he seemed to view the battle fairly dispassionately, participating in the war because of duty rather than a particular desire to protect the citizens of France. Athos got along well with him, but had recognized the lack of fire in the man’s soul within hours of making his acquaintance. For many, that would represent a serious concern, but Dubois never shirked his duty and treated his men fairly, which seemed to be enough for those under his command.

 

The commander of the artillery unit, Chauveau, was a heavyset, older man, obviously having experienced battle before and now looking for an easier post. His role allowed him to participate less actively since his responsibility lay mainly in adjusting the canon fire that battered the Spanish lines and, less frequently, one of the chateau’s impressive stone walls. As such, none of his men stepped foot onto the battleground and the man was content to remain in the background, only participating in strategy sessions when his input was required.

 

Wearily, he pinched the bridge of his nose as he closed his eyes, realizing that his first monumental task would be to convince the others of the need to go after his missing friends. Even as he contemplated the thought, he could feel the emptiness in the pit of his stomach, his well-honed instincts already warning that he would get little support from Dubois and Chauveau. Despite that, it was his duty to try. He was no longer a simple Musketeer, one among many who had the freedom to occasionally follow his own pursuits. Now, he was the leader of his regiment, and Treville was depending on him to fulfill his duties to the best of his ability.

 

The constraint of his position seemed to chafe and Athos found himself shifting uncomfortably in his doublet, the leather seemingly tightening around him to constrict his chest. As comte, he’d had no difficulty with the responsibilities of his role, having been taught since childhood the expectations of someone in his station. Following the death of his brother and his obligation to punish his wife, he’d been disillusioned and had rebelled against all of the rules which had thus far guided his life. Joining the regiment had allowed him to gain some semblance of balance, providing structure without painful restriction, and the latitude to follow his heart on the odd occasion when he saw a different path forward.

 

His new role had taken that away from him, leaving him at the mercy of others’ expectations and his own desire to not disappoint those who depended on him. But regardless of his wish to follow Treville’s orders and keep his men safe, he could not put aside his more important role of brother to the two men who now sat inside the Spanish-held estate. Tiredly, he pushed himself off the ground, taking a moment to brush the dust from his breeches. He would attempt to convince his fellow officers first, but knew deep in his heart that he would take things into his own hands if he found no satisfaction there. Inhaling deeply and then slowly exhaling, he straightened his shoulders, preparing to present his reasons why their energy needed to be switched to infiltration instead of destruction so they might rescue two of their own. 

* * *

They’d been taken into the lower levels of the chateau and deposited into a room with an imposing wooden door that was locked behind them. The floor was packed dirt, and thankfully dry, although their surroundings were cool and dim, with two small, barred windows set above eye-level. As much as Aramis hated being imprisoned, he was grateful to finally be left alone with d’Artagnan, feeling a nearly overwhelming need to check on the younger man.

 

The Gascon had been carried inside by the Spanish soldiers, and his limp form had been unceremoniously dropped just inside the doorway, one of the men giving d’Artagnan a parting kick to move him further into the room. Aramis had been incensed, but had been restrained by his own set of guards, the men holding fast to his arms until the others had retreated. Then, he was pushed forward into the wall as the remaining guards exited.

 

The clang of the door closing behind them had a finality that Aramis chose not to contemplate, needing to believe that they would survive and eventually find a way to free themselves from their captors. He’d done his best to observe everything around him as they’d passed, noting the number of soldiers stationed at the chateau’s gates, the amount and type of weapons carried, and anything else he thought might later be of value. As he slid to his knees next to d’Artagnan, he wished for even the barest of supplies with which to help his friend.

 

Rolling him gently onto his back, he carefully examined the red and burned areas around the Gascon’s eyes, the lids themselves painfully swollen, and Aramis knew the boy would have been unable to open them, even if he’d been awake to do so. Lifting d’Artagnan’s head with one hand, his other explored the back of the young man’s skull, finding the gash there that marked the spot where the enemy’s weapon had connected and split the skin.

 

With a low sigh, he tugged at his shirt, revealing the bottom hem before ripping several long strips. They’d been left with a bucket of drinking water and Aramis now dipped a portion of the balled-up linen into the liquid, saturating the cloth. First, he placed a length over d’Artagnan’s eyes, hoping the coolness would soothe the burned skin. Next, he wiped away the blood that matted the boy’s hair, leaving the cut itself to scab over since he had nothing with which to sew it closed.

 

When he’d done all he could, he repositioned them both, moving them against one of the far walls where he tugged the Gascon’s upper body into his lap, placing a hand at d’Artagnan’s throat where he could feel the young man’s pulse. Tipping his head against the wall, Aramis closed his eyes, wondering at how quickly things had turned against them. He’d made a dangerous play by agreeing to go back to the chateau, but there had been little choice when the soldiers had threatened d’Artagnan’s life. It was bad enough that Porthos had already been critically hurt; he could not bear seeing the Gascon shot when he had the power to stop it.

 

Despite their new status as prisoners, Aramis was fairly confident that they would not be mistreated, the Spanish commander making it clear that they needed the medic’s skills. While he was a compassionate man, he admitted that it would be a struggle to tend the men who returned from battling his own brothers-in-arms, and he promised himself that he would provide only the most basic of care.

 

Beneath his hand, d’Artagnan’s breathing sped up for a moment before evening out again, and Aramis was grateful that he’d remained unconscious. As much as he wanted to see the Gascon’s dark eyes, their situation was dismal, and it wouldn’t hurt the boy to remain asleep a while longer before facing their new, desperate reality.

 

If he was honest with himself, Aramis knew he was also trying to delay facing d’Artagnan’s anger. The young man would be upset with him for agreeing to the enemy’s terms in exchange for the Gascon’s life. Another sigh spilled from his chest at the boy’s self-sacrificing ways, and he hoped d’Artagnan would understand that he didn’t have it in him to watch another friend die.

 

The weeks after Savoy had been difficult enough, and although he’d had no control over the lives of his brothers, he still carried the heavy burden of guilt for having been the massacre’s only survivor. The time afterward had nearly killed him as he struggled to come to terms with being alive, when so many others were not; it was something he could not bear to endure ever again. At peace with his decision to save d’Artagnan’s life, he allowed his mind to drift, sleep gradually overtaking him. His hand remained on the Gascon’s pulse, unconsciously aware of its reassuring thrum even as he slept.


	6. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His breath hitched and it took several seconds before his next broken words slipped out, “I’m so very, very sorry. I’ve lost them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's continuing to read and comment. As always, I love hearing your thoughts. Hope you enjoy this next part!

The first tendrils of awareness came through sound, and he registered the soft footfalls of booted feet moving in a regular rhythm - several steps, followed by a pause, only to be repeated again. The next sensation that made its way through his sluggish brain was that of something cool and damp laying across his eyes. It was not an unwelcome feeling and he sighed softly, deciding that it could stay. His body felt oddly heavy and he was somehow disconnected from it, something that should have worried him, but which did not immediately trigger any warning signs. Somewhere in his muddled mind, he was able to unconsciously recognize that the feeling of detachment might be a positive thing.

 

A random twitch of the muscles in one foot had his leg slightly bouncing, the motion jarring his entire body and sending a jolt of pain through his head. He moaned at the sudden discomfort, the noise seeming to echo in and around his fragile skull. His right hand began to lift immediately in an attempt to stifle the pain, and suddenly he felt someone’s fingers around his wrist, preventing the movement. “No, d’Artagnan, you don’t want to do that,” a kind voice assured him as the grip shifted from his wrist to his hand.

 

It took several moments before the Gascon could place the voice, finally identifying Aramis. “’Mis?” he slurred, surprised at how weak his voice sounded.

 

“Yes, d’Artagnan, it’s me,” the marksman confirmed, squeezing the young man’s hand. “How are you feeling?”

 

Aramis watched as d’Artagnan’s brow furrowed, the action accompanied by a sharp intake of air and then another groan of pain. He instinctively tried to touch his temple again, but the medic’s hold was firm as he once more prevented the action. Sensing the Gascon’s confusion, Aramis changed his approach, “How badly does your head hurt, d’Artagnan?”

 

Aramis watched as the young man drew several shaky breaths before mumbling, “Hurts.”

 

The medic winced in sympathy, knowing that he could do little to alleviate his friend’s pain. “I know,” he replied, still grasping the young man’s hand. “It will feel better after you’ve rested some more.”

 

d’Artagnan began to nod, only to abort the movement as the motion jarred his aching skull. Placing his other hand on the crown of his friend’s head to keep him from moving, Aramis asked, “Do you remember what happened?” The marksman watched as his friend tried to recall the events leading up to their capture, a part of him hoping that the young man would have some knowledge of what had transpired so he wouldn’t have to relate the whole, sordid tale.

 

d’Artagnan remained quiet for so long, that Aramis began to think the boy had fallen asleep until he finally breathed out a quiet, “No.”

 

Deciding to keep things simple for the addled young man, Aramis explained, “You were hurt during the last skirmish.”

 

Before he could go on, the Gascon’s breathing hitched as he blurted out, “Was I shot?”

 

“What?” Aramis answered, before he could stop himself. “No, d’Artagnan, you weren’t shot but, you did suffer a blow to the head.” The marksman refrained from explaining about the pistol that had blown up in the young man’s face, not wanting him to panic. Instead, he kept his voice calm as he moved the hand from d’Artagnan’s head to remove the damp cloth from the boy’s face. He considered the red, swollen skin there as he asked, “Can you open your eyes for me?”

 

It took the Gascon several moments but he was able to prise his lids open to mere slits, managing to keep both eyes open for a couple of seconds before they began to tear up and he closed them again. d’Artagnan’s breathing had sped up with the act, and Aramis waited for several heartbeats before saying, “I know that was uncomfortable but it’ll be easier once the swelling goes down.”

 

The Gascon forgot again and gave the barest of nods as his breaths slowed. As the medic watched, d’Artagnan’s hand slowly became lax in his own and the young man drifted back to sleep. Satisfied that his friend had woken, been relatively coherent, and had managed to open his eyes, Aramis released the boy’s hand, laying it across his chest.

 

It was a good thing that the Gascon had woken since the Spanish would be unlikely to coddle him, or give him a great amount of time to recover. The officer who’d captured them had made it clear that d’Artagnan would be used to ensure Aramis’ cooperation, and there would only be so much the medic would be able to do to protect his friend in the coming days. He could only pray that their captivity would be brief, trusting that Athos would do everything in his power to rescue them quickly. 

* * *

Athos had spent the afternoon strategizing in his tent, needing to have a plan to present to his fellow officers that would be compelling enough to gain him the support needed to rescue his friends. He’d allowed himself a very full cup of brandy, needing the strong alcohol to steady his nerves and lubricate his frazzled mind. After hours of worrying the problem from every possible angle, he’d managed to determine little else other than reconfirming his earlier thoughts – his likeliest ally would be the comte, and it was doubtful he’d ever convince the others to do anything other than follow their original orders.

 

Having found no other way forward, Athos had presented himself to de la Grange to discuss the following day’s plans. In truth, there was no reason for the meeting other than Athos’ need to turn their conversation to the vulnerabilities of the chateau as he sought a potential entry point into the veritable fortress. Sadly, he left disappointed, the only point of weakness having been earlier exploited by the Spanish and then subsequently fortified so that others would not be able to follow in their footsteps. It was becoming apparent that no one would be able to gain access into the impressive estate unless allowed to enter by the current occupants.

 

With a curt nod of his head, Athos had withdrawn, the weight of his friends’ lives weighing heavily and threatening to bow his shoulders under the strain. Forcing himself to stand straight, he made his way to the medical tent, nodding to the men he encountered along the way, most of them leaving him to his thoughts since they recognized his destination.

 

Inside, the smell of stale sweat and copper assaulted him, and he held his breath for several steps as he took control over his roiling stomach. Porthos’ bed was in a quieter corner of the tent, the position allowing his friends to visit with some semblance of privacy. It was a courtesy extended to the large Musketeer because of his relationship with Athos, and the former noble had not been able to find it within himself to protest to small favour.  

 

Athos settled on the stool that still sat next to Porthos’ cot, letting his eyes take in his friend’s appearance and thanking God that at least he looked no worse than before. He was not normally a tactile man but tonight he could not resist the urge to grip Porthos’ hand, needing the contact as a reminder that he still had one of his brothers with him. The likelihood was that Aramis and d’Artagnan were still alive as well – Athos was actually betting on that being the case, but it was a difficult fact to remember while they were apart.

 

As he sat there in the stillness of the tent, wishing that Porthos would wake so he could confess his failures to the man, Athos found doubt slowly but surely taking hold in his heart – doubt that his friends would return to him alive; doubt that he would ever see them again; and doubt that he would be able to devise a plan that would see them safely reunited again as the Inseparables. Once it took hold, the feeling only blossomed in his chest until it nearly strangled him, and Athos’ breaths were coming out in shallow gasps.

 

With a stifled sob, Athos gripped Porthos’ hand in both of his and leaned forward, resting his forehead lightly on his friend’s bare shoulder as he whispered, “I’m sorry, Porthos.” His breath hitched and it took several seconds before his next broken words slipped out, “I’m so very, very sorry. I’ve lost them.” Moisture welled in his eyes, making his vision blurry and he closed them, allowing a small trickle of water to find its way down his cheek as he held onto Porthos’ hand, seeking his friend’s forgiveness. Several minutes passed and Athos was aware that he needed to pull himself together, but he wasn’t yet ready to face the reality that all three of his brothers’ lives were in jeopardy.

 

When the tears had ebbed, Athos sat up and wiped away the remaining moisture with one hand, drawing a deeper breath as he tried to regain some semblance of control. In his other hand, Porthos’ fingers twitched and his eyes were drawn to them immediately as he waited for the action to be repeated. He was rewarded seconds later as Porthos squeezed his hand, the action more than the reflexive reaction of a sleeping man. Barely daring to hope that his friend was awake, Athos asked with trepidation, “Porthos?” He waited silently for any sort of response and heard a low moan moments later.

 

Tightening his grip on Porthos’ hand, Athos shifted his gaze to the injured man’s face, watching as he attempted to open heavy eyelids. Encouraging the effort, the Captain repeated, “Porthos, please, open your eyes for me.”

 

It may have been the please that drew Porthos’ attention, the word so unusual from the man who, while always polite, had a tendency to issues orders with a quiet authority that made refusal nearly impossible. Athos’ plea was accompanied by a note of deep despair that Porthos so rarely associated with his friend anymore, and it was that which gave him the energy needed to finally open his eyes.

 

Beside him, Athos was waiting anxiously, still hoping to unburden himself but, more importantly, needing the assurance that at least one of his brothers would be alright. When he was graced with Porthos’ pain-filled eyes, he drew a sharp breath, immediately regretting his desire to see his friend awake. Unfortunately, the action only served to increase the injured man’s concern and bring him closer to awareness.

 

Reacting instinctively to Athos’ distress, Porthos moved to push himself up from his stomach, only to fall back seconds later, having accomplished little more than lifting his shoulder off the cot before he was drowning in an overwhelming surge of pain. Throughout the swell of agony, Athos gripped his friend’s hand tightly, whispering nonsensical words of comfort.

 

It took over a minute before Porthos’ breathing began to slow, and Athos found his breaths coming more easily as the injured man’s pain eased. Freeing one hand, the older man reached for the cloth that was constantly on the small table at Porthos’ head, dipping it into the bowl of water before wringing it out and wiping the sheen of sweat from his friend’s face. The cool sensation seemed to revive Porthos and his eyes fluttered open again, searching out the older man.

 

Laying the cloth across the nape of the injured man’s neck, Athos kept a hand on Porthos’ shoulder to prevent him from moving as he asked, “Are you with me this time?”

 

The large man gave a small nod, his cheek rubbing against the thin pillow underneath his head. Porthos’ tongue darted out to touch cracked and dry lips, and Athos correctly interpreted the action, “Are you thirsty?” Another nod followed and Athos took a deeper breath as he explained, “I’ll need to roll you onto to your side so you can drink.” Porthos met his gaze inquiringly and the Captain went on, “You were shot in the back; it’ll hurt.” The larger man’s eyes closed for a moment, and when he reopened them, Athos knew he was ready.

 

With infinite care, the older man pushed against Porthos’ hip and shoulder, pulling a leg forward when he was done in order to keep injured man comfortably in place. He’d ignored the grunts that his friend had been unable to stifle during the procedure, and now re-wet the cloth and again wiped Porthos’ glistening face. As he waited for the large man to open his eyes, Athos poured a cup of water, and once Porthos was ready, held the injured man’s head up and helped him drink.

 

The Captain retook his seat when they were done and waited to see whether Porthos would fall asleep again, pleasantly surprised when his friend’s eyes opened once more to meet his own. “How long?” the injured man rasped, having been hurt often enough in the past to understand how frequently time was lost when one was wounded.

 

“Four days,” Athos replied wearily. “It’s been four days since you were carried back with a Spanish ball lodged in your back.”

 

Porthos considered the answer he’d received, unsurprised by the length of time given how poorly he felt. He would have gladly helped Athos reposition his body or taken the cup from the older man’s hands, but the energy to do so eluded him, and even now, he was beginning to flag. Gathering his remaining strength, he posed the question he needed answered, “The others?”

 

Athos knew immediately to whom Porthos referred, but now hesitated to reply. Just minutes before he’d prayed for the injured man to wake so he might unburden himself, but now, as he looked into his friend’s exhausted face, he could not bring himself to share the news of what had happened to Aramis and d’Artagnan.

 

As he considered what to say, Porthos’ lids were already beginning to droop, and Athos was certain that it would not be much longer before his friend was once again asleep. Deciding that he could not tell the injured man what had happened simply to assuage his own guilty conscience, he finally replied, “They’re otherwise occupied.”

 

Normally, Athos’ answer would never have satisfied the large Musketeer, but after several days of pain, blood loss, and only the barest amount of sustenance, there was no power on earth that could keep Porthos’ eyes from closing. Enviously, the Captain watched as his friend drifted off, pulling the blanket up from his waist to his neck, and ensuring he was comfortable before standing.

 

Athos would explain the day’s events to Porthos once he was strong enough to hear them. For now, the older man would allow the injured man a little more time to regain his strength without the added worry of what their other two friends were dealing with. With a last fond look at Porthos, Athos left, making his way back to his own tent where he knew that a sleepless night awaited him.

* * *

They’d been brought food and Aramis was surprised to find that it was relatively decent fare, the stew still warm and filled with meat and root vegetables, while the bread was fresh enough to have been baked that day. The quality of the meal suggested that the Spanish commander intended to keep his prisoners in decent condition, even though the medic recognized that the other man’s motives were purely selfish.

 

When the food had arrived, he’d considered waking d’Artagnan, but the young man’s sleep since he’d woken earlier that afternoon had been anything but restful, the pain of his head wounds dogging the Gascon even in unconsciousness. For that reason, he’d let the boy rest, despite knowing that the stew would be a cold, congealed mess by the time his companion awoke.

 

They’d had visitors again by the time d’Artagnan was once more showing signs of awareness, the men this time lighting torches that sat high enough above their heads that the Musketeers would be unable to reach them and use them as weapons. Aramis was grateful for the consideration since it would enable him to continue caring for his friend, despite the fact that they wouldn’t have darkness in which to sleep.

 

The Gascon's return to wakefulness was just as difficult as the first time, and the medic patiently sat next to his friend with a hand on the young man’s head so he wouldn’t move unnecessarily and cause himself additional pain. Aramis could tell when d’Artagnan actually awoke as he moaned, and his breathing quickened as his body readjusted to the sensations that were no doubt flooding his muddled brain.

 

“d’Artagnan, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand,” Aramis instructed as he inserted his hand into the young man’s, knowing that any vocalizations would likely aggravate the boy’s aching head. Seconds later, the medic felt the weak pressure that indicated the Gascon’s comprehension of his instructions.

 

“I know your head still hurts so don’t try to talk or move,” the medic suggested.

 

d’Artagnan almost forgot his friend’s instructions and grunted, having no inclination to either speak or move while someone was bludgeoning his skull. He’d experienced head wounds in the past, but this felt somehow worse than those occasions, though his mind was too confused to be able to identify what was different this time.

 

Aramis was speaking again, and he had to concentrate hard to decipher what was being said, finally comprehending the word “water” which his body craved. Without thought, his lips parted, which was apparently enough for the medic to understand his need. Moments later, he felt his head supported and the cool liquid trickled into his mouth, his body instinctively swallowing.

 

After a few sips, the cup disappeared and d’Artagnan couldn’t help but moan at its loss, wincing immediately afterwards as the sound echoed and bounced within his skull. Again, Aramis anticipated his need, and he felt something cool and damp across his brow. He sighed softly as the sensation cooled the fire that burned within his head. Above, Aramis smiled at the small bit of comfort he’d been able to provide to his friend. “Thanks,” the Gascon mumbled. “Feels good.”

 

Once more, the medic’s lips quirked at the young man’s reaction as he replied, “You’re welcome.”

 

The sat in silence for nearly a minute until d’Artagnan’s mouth opened to speak again, “You alright?”

 

Aramis gave a small shake of his head, unsurprised by the Gascon’s predictable nature that had him asking about his friend’s health while feeling so poorly himself. “I’m fine, d’Artagnan,” the marksman assured. “Are you feeling any better?”

 

The young man’s brow furrowed as he considered the question, apparently deciding that he needed to open his eyes before he could reply. Aramis watched as d’Artagnan struggled to open the red and tender lids that covered his eyes, and grinned back when he’d managed the feat. “There you are,” he said, pleased that the boy’s eyes seemed no worse than before. “How do your eyes feel?”

 

d’Artagnan blinked several times, his face turned towards Aramis but his eyes remaining unfocused. Inhaling more deeply, the Gascon finally replied, a mild look of confusion on his face, “It’s too dark to see anything.”

 

The medic’s face blanched and his heart skipped a beat, his hand unconsciously clenching around d’Artagnan’s fingers, momentarily squeezing them hard before realizing what he was doing. With effort, he forced his hand to relax and drew a slow, steadying breath. “Can you see anything at all?” he asked, keeping his voice even.

 

The seconds it took before the Gascon answered were some of the longest of Aramis’ life. “No, nothing,” d’Artagnan breathed out, his eyes beginning to close.

 

The medic felt as though he’d just been kicked in the chest, but he forced a calm he didn’t feel as he assured his young friend, “Not to worry; it’ll be easier once the swelling goes down.” d’Artagnan didn’t seem to find anything odd with his friend’s reply and simply allowed his lids to fall, the short exchange having tired him sufficiently that he could no longer stay awake.

 

When Aramis was certain that the Gascon was asleep, he pulled his hand free from the boy’s lax fingers and stood, his limbs shaky with anxiety and fear. He ran his hands through his matted curls, leaving his fingers tangled there as he let his head drop back, his eyes automatically landing on one of the bright torches. The room they were in had been dim during the daytime, but with the firelight dancing off the ceiling and walls, there was more than enough illumination with which to see. There could be only one reason for d’Artagnan’s response – the young man was blind.


	7. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drawing a shaky breath, d’Artagnan responded, his voice weighed down with despair, “I pray you will never experience the loss of your sight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the focus on just two of the guys this time around - I promise the others will be back again next time. Enjoy!

They’d been provided with a couple of blankets, which had done little to stave off the chill that had settled into their prison once night had well and truly fallen. Without straw or anything else to act as a barrier between their bodies and the cold ground, there was little they could do to stay warm.

 

Aramis had managed to get the groggy Gascon onto one of the blankets, but the fabric wasn’t thick enough to act as a proper insulator. Next, he’d tucked himself as close as possible to d’Artagnan’s body, wrapping them both in the remaining cover. The young man had slept through the majority of the night, his head wound keeping him unware despite his body’s shivering. Aramis had only managed to doze fitfully, falling asleep for short periods of time when his discomfort was overwhelmed by his exhaustion.

 

When the first, weak rays of dawn began to shine through their barred windows, the marksman was already awake, d’Artagnan pulled close to him and practically resting his upper body on Aramis’ chest. The medic acknowledged that they were currently prisoners of war, but if the Spanish commander wanted him to be in any fit state to tend to the wounded, they wouldn’t be able to spend another night like this one, a point that Aramis was more than ready to make as soon as an opportunity presented itself.

 

Today would be their first full day in captivity, and Aramis’ fertile imagination couldn’t help but conjure one bad scenario after another of what might await, all of them having one common theme – that he would at some point be separated from his blind and vulnerable friend. During his periods of wakefulness, his mind had always turned to d’Artagnan’s words, and each time he’d had to quell the surge of fear that welled and threatened to overtake him. If there was one thing he could not afford, it was the irrationality that accompanied panic, and as the only hale man in their partnership, Aramis would need to keep a clear head.

 

It had been obvious the previous night that the Gascon was not yet aware of his infirmity, and the medic prayed that it might still turn out to be a temporary condition, and one that would resolve itself with rest and time. Another part of his brain reminded him that the young man had had a pistol blow up in his face, an event that had relieved scores of men of their sight; Aramis could only hope that d’Artagnan’s penchant for beating the odds would once again see him triumph. Should he remain blind, the Gascon’s life would be permanently altered in too many ways to consider, the most significant of which would be his forced retirement from the regiment, an outcome which the marksman knew would forever scar the young man’s soul.

 

Thank God d’Artagnan at least had Constance; but, Aramis considered, their union was still new and untested, the two lovers having just consummated their bond before the Gascon had departed for war. The realization had the marksman now wondering if the couple could survive such a tragic turn of events. The boy’s wife seemed steady and she had already endured much; Aramis believed her to be strong enough to deal with her husband’s loss of sight, but what if he was wrong. At least Constance had her post at the palace, affording the couple a means of support, since it would be difficult for a blind man to find a way of providing for not only himself but his new wife as well.

 

The despairing thoughts had Aramis sighing wearily as he rubbed at his gritty eyes, the orbs red and sore from the poor night he’d had. Slowly, sounds of life reached his ears, and he realized that their prison faced into the estate’s courtyard. He could faintly hear voices as people began their day outside and scurried to and fro in front of their drab prison. d’Artagnan must have registered the sounds as well, as he was soon shifting in preparation of waking, and Aramis both looked forward to and dreaded the young man’s coming awareness.

 

The marksman had shifted their positions so that d’Artagnan’s head now rested against the older man’s thigh, and Aramis held the boy’s right hand so it couldn’t go exploring once he awoke. The medic now removed the cloth from his friend’s face and watched as the Gascon made several aborted attempts to open his eyes, each time settling back into sleep for several minutes before partially rousing once more. Aramis’ attention was drawn to the door with the arrival of their morning meal, and he momentarily cursed his inability to rise, having to instead face their captors while seated on the ground.

 

Despite his position, he cleared his throat and addressed the man who stood guard by the open doorway while his companion deposited their food. “We need blankets if we’re to spend our nights locked up in here,” Aramis stated with authority, hoping one of the soldiers understood French. “And some clean straw wouldn’t go amiss, either.” The guard raised an incredulous eyebrow at his prisoner’s demands and the marksman could tell his requests were about to be declined, so he hurriedly added, “Let your commander know that if I’m to tend to your injured, I can’t spend all night awake and shivering due to the cold.”

 

The statement seemed to still whatever rebuke the guard had been about to offer, and while the man looked less than impressed, he gave a grudging nod that led Aramis to believe their requests would at least be delivered to the Spanish officer for consideration. As the men retreated, he let out a relieved sigh, his breath hitching moments later as d’Artagnan spoke, “It’s morning.” The young man’s tone indicated that he was stating a fact, and Aramis looked into his friend’s face and grinned when he saw the open eyes staring upwards.

 

“Yes,” the marksman confirmed. “You can see.” As soon as the words slipped past his lips, he regretted them, his brain processing what he was seeing, but that had initially not registered. While the Gascon’s eyes were partially open, they were unfocused and stared sightlessly into the distance. There was no recognition in the young man’s eyes, only unshed tears as moisture began to pool in them.

 

“No,” d’Artagnan breathed out, his lids sliding closed, a single tear released with the action. Angrily, he raised a hand to his face to wipe it away, but was caught by Aramis who didn’t want the young man to make things any worse. The marksman gently but firmly held his friend’s hand while he reached over with his other, carefully wiping away the moisture from the Gascon’s cheek with the pad of his thumb.

 

Infusing his words with as much confidence as he could muster, Aramis said, “It’s alright. It’s not uncommon for these types of injuries to take several days to heal.”

                                               

d’Artagnan remained still with his eyes closed, but his grip tightened around the medic’s hand as he softly asked, “What happened?”

 

Aramis bit his lower lip for a moment as he contemplated hiding the truth from his friend, but given their position as prisoners in enemy hands, he could not afford to be anything less than truthful. Inhaling deeply, he explained, “The soldier’s pistol that you used misfired, and the powder burned your face. You were also struck from behind by another and rendered unconscious.”

 

The Gascon gave a tiny tilt of his head in understanding, encouraging Aramis to continue. “I tried to come to your aid, but was prevented from doing so by a Spanish officer.” Pausing, the marksman considered his words for a moment before continuing, “I agreed to tend the wounded Spanish soldiers in exchange for your life.”

 

The room was silent for several long seconds as Aramis waited for the young man’s response, surprised when d’Artagnan finally gave a small nod as he replied, “Thank you.”

 

The marksman’s brows furrowed in confusion, the young man’s reaction unusually subdued and the exact opposite of the angry tirade he’d been anticipating. “For what?” he asked, not understanding why the Gascon would be thanking him.

 

“For saving my life,” d’Artagnan replied, his tone suggesting that it should have been obvious to the other man.

 

“d’Artagnan, I’m not sure I did you any favours,” Aramis began, certain that the Gascon misunderstood the gravity of their situation, but he was interrupted before he could say anything more.

 

“They would have killed me if you hadn’t agreed to do this,” the Gascon interjected, a questioning tone coloring his words.

 

The marksman nodded, and then realized that his friend couldn’t see his reply. “Yes, they would have,” he acknowledged hesitantly.

 

“And they brought me along to ensure your cooperation,” d’Artagnan went on.

 

“Yes, that’s right,” Aramis concurred.

 

“And there’s a good chance we’ll be separated soon and you won’t be able to protect me,” the Gascon stated, resignation clear in his voice.

 

“Now, hold on, that’s not exactly true,” Aramis countered, but was again cut off.

 

“Aramis,” d’Artagnan’s voice was quiet but commanding, and the marksman gave way and allowed his friend to speak. “We’re prisoners and we’ve both been brought here for very specific purposes. As soon as you’re needed, you’ll be taken from here and have no choice to do what they ask, otherwise they’ll hurt me.”

 

Stated so matter-of-factly, the words were a harsh but accurate reflection of their reality, and Aramis swallowed with difficulty. “Yes,” he managed to say, his voice low with undisguised emotion.

 

“Then you must make me a promise, Aramis,” the Gascon stated. The marksman’s gaze flew back to his friend’s face as the dread welled in his belly at what the man might ask of him. “If you see an opportunity to escape, you have to take it, even if it means leaving me behind.”

 

“d’Artagnan, no,” Aramis protested immediately.

 

“Aramis, stop,” the Gascon interrupted, his tone steely. “It is your duty to try and get away, and provide inside intelligence about all that you’ve seen. We cannot afford to waste any advantage nor provide one to the enemy.”

 

Above him, d’Artagnan could hear his friend’s sigh of frustration and he waited patiently for the man to come to the conclusion that the Gascon was right. When he’d realized that he couldn’t see, the young man had wanted to panic, but that desire had been tempered by Aramis’ description of their current situation. d’Artagnan had recognized the need to remain calm almost immediately, followed soon after by the need to convince his friend to leave him behind.

 

Weak, injured and without the ability to see, he was nothing more than a liability that would eventually cost the loyal marksman his life. At some point, the medic would be asked to do something he could not, and d’Artagnan would be punished for it. No matter what, the Gascon knew that Aramis would be unable to stand by and watch, and his reaction would ultimately lead to both their deaths. Rather than waiting for that inevitable end, it would be better to convince Aramis now of the need to escape, and d’Artagnan prayed that his friend would agree.

 

His ears picked up the sound of Aramis sighing once more, this time sounding more resigned than upset, and seconds later he began to speak, “d’Artagnan, I cannot promise I will leave you behind, but if the opportunity for both us to get away presents itself, I will take advantage of it.” The marksman paused for a moment, before he finished, “That’s the best I can do.”

 

The Gascon gave a slight tip of his head, satisfied for the moment with the commitment he’d gained, and hopeful that he could get Aramis to agree fully with his terms after a few days in captivity. Tiredly, he murmured, “Going to sleep for a while now. Wake me if anyone comes.” He could hear the marksman’s low hum of acknowledgement as he allowed his grasp on awareness to slip, gratefully sliding back into sleep where he could pretend that the darkness was of his own choosing. 

* * *

As the morning stretched into midday, Aramis found himself unable to sit and simply wait anymore, and ended up pacing the length and breadth of their prison. He’d explored every inch of the cell’s perimeter, tested the door at least a half-dozen times, and nearly memorized every crack in the stone walls. His examination had produced nothing of value, and only served to confirm that they were well-secured, with the only exit being the heavy wooden door that remained locked and barred against their attempts to flee.

 

The marksman now wandered somewhat aimlessly along the edges of their prison, having nothing else with which to pass the time. He’d eaten earlier and had hoped his friend would join him, but d’Artagnan had slept soundly since their morning conversation. A part of him envied the Gascon’s ability to sleep through the hours of waiting and wondering, the anticipation of what would come next wearing on Aramis’ nerves slowly but surely.

 

He was pulled from his musings by the sound of their door being once more unlocked, this time opening to admit a trio of men who refused to make eye contact, depositing large armfuls of fresh straw in one corner of the space. The same guard from before stood at the open doorway, his gaze firmly on the upright Musketeer, but Aramis made no move towards the others, recognizing that d’Artagnan would pay for any insubordination on his part. The three retreated, and seconds later, one of the men returned to deposit a pile of blankets just inside the door before scurrying away again. With a last hard look in the marksman’s direction, the guard left and they were left on their own.

 

“Well, at least we won’t freeze tonight,” Aramis remarked to himself, eyeing the supplies that had been provided with a sense of satisfaction that he did, in fact, have some leverage to negotiate.

 

From the other side of their space, a voice replied, “Guess that means you won’t have any excuse to cuddle with me tonight.”

 

Aramis’ face split with a grin as he crossed the distance between himself and the Gascon, “It’s good to see you awake again. Feeling any better?”

 

d’Artagnan gave a lopsided shrug as he said, “I want to sit up for a while.” With his statement, the young man began to put his words into action, rolling slightly to his left side and then starting to push himself upwards with his right arm.

 

The medic was crouching beside him in an instant, staying his movement with one hand, “I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

 

The Gascon gave a huff as he replied, “Probably not, but I can’t lie here forever.” As he began to make motions to rise once more, he added, “You can either help me or get out of my way.”

 

Aramis considered his friend for a moment before shifting his grip, this time grasping the young man’s upper arm and helping him to sit up. As soon as he was upright, d’Artagnan swayed and would have fallen over if not for the marksman’s hold. “Dizzy,” the young man gasped as his face scrunched up with pain.

 

“Steady,” the medic softly coached, letting the Gascon lean against him until the world settled. When d’Artagnan’s breathing had evened out, Aramis asked, “Better?”

 

The young man moved to nod, aborting the motion an instant later when his sense of vertigo returned. “Bad idea,” he mumbled, his eyes firmly closed as he waited for his confusion to abate. Several seconds later, he said, “I’m good now.”

 

Aramis retained his hold, uncertain about his friend’s claim, “Are you sure?”

 

d’Artagnan’s lips quirked slightly at the familiar overprotectiveness, even as he answered, “I’m fine, Aramis; really.”

 

Without letting go, the medic glanced behind him at the pile of fresh straw. “If you think you’ll be alright for a minute, I’ll go arrange the hay and blankets into a pallet.”

 

“Sure”, the Gascon replied, already preparing himself to be without the marksman’s support. Aramis released his grip slowly, watching as d’Artagnan leaned to the left and braced himself with his hands on either side of him, his head hanging low to his chest. The medic recognized the symptoms as possible signs of the young man’s head injury, but it was also possible that the effects were exacerbated by his loss of sight. If that were the case, d’Artagnan would have difficulties getting around for some time as his body adjusted to the lack of visual input.

 

Rising, he brushed his hands against his breeches before gathering the additional blankets, and moving towards the pile of straw they’d been given. It took less than a minute to spread it out and cover it one of the blankets, the space large enough for them to both sit and, later that night, to sleep. Looking up from his task, with his hands on his hips, he looked over at his friend. d’Artagnan hadn’t moved at all, but his shoulders and arms were stiff as they kept him upright. The young man’s head was still tipped forward and Aramis could hear the quickened breaths that marked the boy’s rising fear.

 

Adopting a teasing tone, the marksman stated, “Sorry to disappoint you, but there wasn’t enough straw for a very large pallet so I’m afraid we’ll be snuggling again after all.”

 

With his words, he could see some of the tension bleeding from the young man’s frame, and he realized with a start that the absence of his voice had likely added to his friend’s disorientation and anxiety. Licking his lips he went on as he approached, “Let’s get you over there, since I’m sure it’ll be far more comfortable than sitting on the cold ground.”

 

d’Artagnan’s head had come up and he was facing in the direction of his friend’s voice. Crouching carefully in front of the Gascon, Aramis spoke again, “We’ll stand slowly so your body has time to adjust.”

 

“Alright,” the young man agreed.

 

Aramis reached a hand forward to grasp d’Artagnan’s, noting the minor flinch at the young man’s surprise at being touched. Inwardly cursing himself for not communicating his intentions more clearly, he instructed his young friend, “I’m going to put your arm over my shoulder and then help you stand.”

 

“Alright,” the Gascon repeated.

 

The medic repositioned himself, ducking under the young man’s arm, and then lifting them both slowly until they were standing. Incredibly, d’Artagnan’s face had paled further and he found himself leaning into the marksman’s support, resting his head briefly on the man’s shoulder. When he felt sufficiently capable of staying on his feet, the Gascon lifted his head and Aramis took his cue, beginning to move them to the pallet. “It’s just five steps,” he said, wanting to give his friend some semblance of control over the situation.

 

When they reached the edge of the straw, Aramis repositioned them again and then lowered them down, allowing d’Artagnan to sit with his legs stretched in front of him, while the wall supported his back. Tipping his head against the wall, the Gascon was quiet for over a minute as he composed himself, and then rolled his head towards his friend as he said, “Thanks.”

 

Aramis placed a hand briefly on the young man’s thigh, giving it a quick squeeze as he replied, “No thanks are necessary. You would do the same for me if our situations were reversed.”

 

Drawing a shaky breath, d’Artagnan responded, his voice weighed down with despair, “I pray you will never experience the loss of your sight.” The marksman looked sharply at the young man, but the Gascon fell quiet, and with no idea of what to say, Aramis let the silence between them stretch. It was only another minute before d’Artagnan’s breathing evened out into sleep and the medic felt guilt rise at his relief.


	8. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now what, Athos thought to himself as his vision blurred and the world titled beneath his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's been commenting and leaving kudos. Hope you enjoy this somewhat longer chapter.

That evening, Athos found himself once more at Porthos’ side, unable to bear the thought of his friend spending too many of his waking moments alone. Earlier, he’d been given an update about the injured man’s condition, and was pleased to hear that Porthos had managed some broth and that the infection in his wounds was finally beginning to clear. His short periods of awareness were still punctuated by long stretches of rest, but the injured man was now experiencing healing sleep rather than the unconsciousness associated with severe injury.

 

While Athos was heartened that the large man was beginning to recover, he could also not help but dread the unavoidable conversation that drew nearer with every subsequent period of wakefulness when Porthos would demand to know about their missing friends. The recently-promoted Captain had again considered keeping the truth from the injured man, or giving him an explanation filled with half-truths and outright lies, but realized that in that direction lay only greater guilt. Instead, he prayed that the conversation would not occur too quickly, and that Porthos would be strong enough to hear the terrible news without suffering any setbacks.

 

Athos was pleasantly surprised to find the large man awake and again propped on his side, affording him a slightly broader view of his surroundings and allowing him to drink at will from the cup near his head. The older man saw Porthos’ eyes shift to him as he approached, offering him a slight smile which Athos couldn’t help but return. Settling himself onto the stool at his friend’s side, he greeted the man, “It’s good to see you awake again. After the past few days, I’d begun to wonder if you had any intention of joining us.”

 

The injured man’s eyes glinted as he heard the underlying concern in his Captain’s words, and he bantered back, “You know me - I’m just naturally lazy.” The statement was far from true, but it had the intended effect of slightly softening the deeply etched worry lines on Athos’ face as his lips again quirked upwards. Taking a moment to catch his breath, Porthos asked, “Speaking of lazy; where are the others?”

 

Athos’ face clouded, and the lines that had previously smoothed reappeared, making the man look even older than before. The former noble’s eyes skittered away as his heart began to race, realizing that the moment he’d dreaded had arrived far sooner than he’d been hoping. From the corner of his eye, he could see the stiffening in Porthos’ posture, and knew he had to speak quickly before his friend leapt to the wrong conclusion.

 

“They’re alive,” Athos assured his friend, needing the injured man to calm enough to hear the rest of what he knew. Taking a steadying breath, he continued, “They were taken by the Spanish in yesterday’s skirmish. I believe them to be alive, but was informed that d’Artagnan was injured.” He paused, gauging Porthos’ reaction as he waited to see if the physician would need to be called.

 

It may have been in part due to the large man’s injured state, or the fact that he firmly believed that if any of his brothers died, he would somehow sense it to be the case. Whatever the reason, Porthos remained calm, processing what he’d been told, and reconfirming that his own instincts told him that the two men still lived. That certainty didn’t eliminate his fear for his friends, but it allowed him to think rationally and kept him from panicking.

 

He reached a shaky hand out to snag the cup of water, but Athos was there first, bringing it close to Porthos’ lips so he could drink. He had a momentary surge of annoyance at his friend’s actions, but realized that the Captain must be feeling impotent with respect to the missing men. For that reason, he allowed the older man his need to be helpful, drinking dutifully until he’d quenched his thirst. Licking his lips to wet them, he asked, “You have a plan to get them back?”

 

Athos looked lost at the question as his mind ran through the list of options he’d considered. He’d already dismissed his initial thought of convincing his fellow officers to launch a rescue attempt, and had been toying with the idea of sending a message to the estate, requesting a meeting to discuss terms for the men’s release. The latter choice seemed the likeliest one to pursue, even though Athos lacked faith in its ability to succeed. If the Spanish had taken Aramis and d’Artagnan, it was with good reason, and he doubted that a politely-worded entreaty would suffice to have the two returned.

 

Lifting his eyes to Porthos’ face, not even realizing when they’d dropped to his clasped hands, he replied, “I was thinking perhaps an invitation to negotiate terms.”

 

The injured man winced at the idea, confirming Athos’ suspicions that the strategy was unlikely to work. Porthos noted the shift in his friend’s expression, which spoke volumes about his belief in the plan, and the large man suspected that what he’d heard was the best of a handful of poor, limited options. Testing his assumption, he said, “You’ve considered getting the support of the others in order to advance on the chateau?” Athos gave a weary nod which Porthos returned. “So for now we wait, and trust that Aramis and d’Artagnan are skilled enough to stay alive until we can figure something out.”

 

The older man gave another dip of his chin, unaccountably comforted by his friend’s understanding despite the fact that they were no closer to having their friends back at their sides. Porthos gave a soft sigh and Athos knew the man would spend every waking hour considering the problem until one or the other of them found a solution. But now, the injured man was tired, his eyelids drooping to half-mast, and the Captain reminded himself that his friend still had a long recovery ahead of him. He stood, Porthos’ eyes following him, “You need to get some rest now so you can heal, Porthos. I’ll come back and check on you tomorrow.”

 

There was a sadness in Athos’ eyes that disturbed the larger man, but his body was begging for sleep, and he gave a small shift of his head in acknowledgement before letting his eyes slip closed. Athos stood there for several seconds before turning tiredly away, his body making its own demands for rest. With a wave of his hand to the physician, Athos made his way out of the tent, the seed of an idea forming in his mind. Tomorrow could be the day when he would be reunited with his friends.

* * *

By evening, d'Artagnan had woken again and had finally managed to drink and to eat a small portion of dry bread. Aramis knew that the young man had made the effort to eat mostly for his benefit, but he didn’t care, simply relieved that his friend had finally consumed something in order to keep up his strength. After he’d allowed sufficient time for the food to digest, and was relatively certain it wouldn’t be making a reappearance, d’Artagnan had insisted that Aramis help him once more to his feet so he could walk around a bit.

 

The medic had been heartily against the decision, but the Gascon had been insistent, reminding the marksman that they would be separated at some point and d’Artagnan could not afford to remain reliant on the other man’s help. The young man knew that it went against every instinct in Aramis’ body, but the medic helped the Gascon stand and then supported him as they completed three full circuits of their cell. d’Artagnan was trembling with pain and dizziness by the time they’d finished, and the marksman was regretting his decision to allow his friend’s foolishness.

 

After settling the Gascon onto the pallet, Aramis wet the cloth he’d been using earlier and brought it to his friend, placing it into the young man’s hands as he said, “You can wipe your face with this.” The medic would have happily done it himself, but recognized the independent man’s need to have some semblance of control over what happened to him.

 

“Thank you,” d’Artagnan murmured as he gratefully wiped away the sweat that had gathered at his temples and in the hollow of his throat.

 

Extending his hand to give the cloth back to Aramis, the medic took it and said, “Tilt your head back and I’ll place this on your eyes for a while.”

 

The Gascon did as he’d been asked, and the medic placed the damp cloth across the young man’s eyes. d’Artagnan sighed at the sensation, which cooled the burning discomfort. “We should continue to use wet cloths to bring the swelling down and cool the skin.”

 

“Hmm,” the young man hummed, relishing the sensation. If he was honest with himself, he would admit that it was not merely the reddened skin around his eyes, or his lack of vision that bothered him. His head also ached fiercely, and each time he moved, the spike of pain seemed to explode and sent starbursts skittering across his eyelids. He thought this latter bit to be somewhat ironic since those errant flashes of light were the only things he was currently able to see.

 

Although Aramis had done his best to reassure him, repeating his earlier words that injuries of this type needed time to heal, d’Artagnan was less than convinced. A couple times, when the medic’s back had been turned, he’d forced his sore eyes open and had been greeted with complete blackness. There had been no varying shades of gray, nor any other indications that he was anything other than blind, and he’d snapped his eyes closed quickly each time, unable to bear the reality that he couldn’t see.

 

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door being opened, and he was grateful when Aramis said, “It’s just our evening meal.” The scent of it reached him moments later, and he had to swallow thickly as it made his belly turn uncomfortably.

 

Once the door had closed, Aramis rose and asked, “Can you manage some stew.”

 

Already knowing his stomach would not accept the offering, he replied, “No, I feel sick.”

 

The medic didn’t try and convince him, and reappeared at his side seconds later as he said, “I have some more bread for you.”

 

d’Artagnan lifted one hand and Aramis placed the crust into it. The Gascon picked at the bread and could hear the sounds of eating beside him as the marksman consumed some sort of stew. Unenthusiastically chewing and swallowing a bite, the young man asked, “How long do you think before they come for you?”

 

Beside him, Aramis paused in his eating, the same question plaguing his thoughts throughout the day. “I don’t believe we’ll receive another day of respite,” he replied truthfully, spooning another bite into his mouth.

 

“Do you think they’ll keep me in here?” the Gascon queried, now picking at the bread in hands, without any of it actually making it into his mouth.

                                  

Seeing the nervous gesture, Aramis put his bowl down to one side, his free hands then moving to take the crust from d’Artagnan’s. The young man gave it up without a fight, and the marksman dropped it next to his bowl. With a resigned sigh, he replied, “I rather believe it depends on how much of a fuss I put up.”

 

d’Artagnan raised an inquiring eyebrow at his friend’s statement, “And how much of a fuss _will_ you put up?”

 

With another sigh, Aramis admitted, “I suppose that depends on what I’m asked to do.” Beside him, the Gascon hummed noncommittally, and the medic felt the need to explain himself. “You know I won’t jeopardize your life needlessly.”

 

“I know,” d’Artagnan answered, momentarily leaning closer so their shoulders gently bumped.

 

“It’s just,” Aramis began and then trailed off, searching for the right words. “I’m not certain what I’ll be asked to do, and if a man dies, they may decide to punish us for it.” The Gascon heard the unstated _“punish you”_ , but didn’t correct his friend, recognizing that anything done to him would undoubtedly pain his friend as well.

 

Straightening as much as possible to minimize his weakened appearance, d’Artagnan tried to reassure his friend, “Aramis, it’s alright. I’m tougher than I look, and I can handle whatever the Spanish choose to throw at me.”

 

The marksman felt a warm flush of pride at the young man’s bravado, while secretly doubtful that the Gascon would be able to sustain much further abuse without serious consequences. The head injury and blindness were bad enough, and he would do everything in his power to ensure d’Artagnan didn’t come to any further harm. Pushing his doubts aside, Aramis replied, “I know. Let’s just pray it doesn’t come to that.”

 

He watched as his young friend gave a slight tip of his head in agreement before letting it fall back against the wall at their backs, his arms resting lightly across his bent knees. The posture was so familiar, Aramis almost felt as if this could be any other mission, but unfortunately that was not the case. This was war and they were in enemy hands; a faint queasiness in the pit of his belly warned him that tomorrow would be far harder than today had been. Forcing himself to eat, he finished the bowl of stew in silence, hoping it would remain in his stomach as he watched the Gascon sleep. 

* * *

Morning brought gray clouds and a drizzle that kept everything cold and damp; it was a good reflection of the mood in the camp that day. Five days had passed since d’Artagnan and Aramis’ capture, and Athos had thus far been unsuccessful in his quest to see them freed. As a result, each day had been a disappointing and repetitive slog as they’d battled the Spanish and then returned each night to lick their wounds, both figuratively and literally. Although none of the officers would voice the opinion out loud, they all agreed that it would be impossible for them to achieve success without reinforcements.

 

Hope that their need had been recognized arrived with the dawn, and was lost just as quickly as the new orders were reviewed. In them, General de Champs indicated his desire to complete their current siege on the chateau within the week so that the forces there could rejoin his larger battalion engaged some 10 miles from their current location. The battle taking place there was of greater importance, and the General needed the additional men and weaponry to turn the tide in their favour. As a result, he’d ordered Athos and the others to redouble their efforts, sending every available man onto the battlefield in an attempt to overwhelm the enemy.

 

At first, Athos inwardly cringed at the foolhardiness of the orders, the General clearly caring more for his own situation than that of the men deployed at the chateau, but as he thought more about their situation, the fledgling idea from before grew until he knew exactly what he needed to do. Pulling his thick leathers and armour from the chest in his tent, he dressed for battle, having decided that he would lead the Musketeers’ attack that day. There would be some surprise at his participation, but not unduly so, and he could easily justify his more active role under the General’s directive.

 

As he double-checked his weapons and then strode from his tent, he hesitated for a moment, considering whether or not to visit Porthos first, but one look at his uniform would have his friend guessing his plan, and Athos didn’t want the man worrying about something he’d be unable to prevent. Instead, his mind wandered to the letter he’d penned earlier, Porthos’ name boldly written on the front of the folded parchment that now lay alone on his tiny desk.

 

He knew he’d taken the cowardly approach, but he was confident that his friend, though injured and still in a great deal of pain, would have tried to bodily restrain him from going. When that failed, he would have likely pulled himself up from his sickbed in order to remain at Athos’ side, and neither of those outcomes were tenable to the older Musketeer. So he’d chosen to explain his actions in a letter instead, certain that one of the other men would find and deliver it if he didn’t return.

 

Athos made his way slowly but with purpose to the front line, his men and others with pikes already present and jittering with adrenaline as they awaited the order to engage. The canon fire was ever-present, currently aimed at the ranks of men who faced them across the battlefield, the iron balls sent singing through the air to land amidst their enemy. The Spanish retaliated in kind, and he could see the fear in some of his comrade’s faces as they cringed and waited to find out if the current volley would be the one to strike them. Others pretended not to care, their eyes lit up with fire and a veneer of confidence that attempted to mask their underlying anxiety.

 

The expressions were not new to Athos; he’d seen them dozens of times on the faces of countless men, some his brothers-in-arms and some his enemies. It didn’t matter the reason or the battleground; when fighting for one’s life, the reactions were always the same, and the stale smell of sweat and fear permeated the air around them. It would be worse later, he reflected, when blood, urine and vomit mingled with the stench, and when even the residue of the gunpowder was overwhelmed by the signs of death and human suffering.

 

Athos shuddered as the memories of previous skirmishes assaulted him, and he ruthlessly forced himself to push the thoughts aside, needing his focus sharp on what was to come. Straightening his shoulders and back, he strode to the front of the line, his men automatically giving way and parting for him, some trading confused looks at his presence among them. He positioned himself at the very front and centre of his regiment, feeling a momentary swell of pride as he was reminded again that these were _his_ men. He heard the low murmur of voices behind him that his presence had created, but ignored it, keeping his eyes focused forward as he waited while forcing a calm he didn’t feel.

 

Minutes passed and still they stood, the cavalry moving forward to clear the way for the infantry. He watched their progress, his mind somewhat detached, praying only for their success so they might sufficiently smooth a path forward for himself and the others who would follow. He forced himself to remain still, knowing that those behind him would take their cue from his lead. Then, he caught the movement from the corner of his eye as the flag that would signal their attack began to rise. Confidently, he pulled his pistol and sword, unsurprised when he heard the sounds of others mirroring his actions behind him.

 

He turned his head to the left, seeing the flag fully raised, and he lifted his sword to the sky as he roared, “Advance!” His legs moved into action, strength coursing through them as his feet pounded against the slick ground. His boots slipped across the mixture of bare grasses and mud as he pushed forward, his eyes already seeking out his first target. His right hand lifted, tracking the soldier in tandem with his eyes, and when the man was sufficiently close, Athos pulled the trigger, holstering the pistol as soon as it was spent and switching his sword to his right hand.

 

In his periphery, he could see others engaging on both sides, but he was already scanning again, looking for an officer on horseback. Another man moved into his line of sight and he lifted his blade to block the steel aimed for his head, pulling his main gauche at the same time and shifting his weight to plunge it into the side of his opponent’s neck. The short dagger squelched as Athos pulled it free, but his attention had already moved on, hardly giving the man he’d just killed another thought.

 

The area around him was full of armour-clad bodies, arms swinging a variety of sharp and deadly weapons, and the chaos made it difficult for him to discern the one he sought from all the others. He turned in place, resolutely ignoring his instincts which screamed at him to be more cautious as he searched for his prey. There! His heart leapt as he caught sight of the mounted officer, the man not quite at the edge of the battle, but far enough away that he could view it in its entirety.

 

Athos’ mind was made up in an instant and he began to fight his way to his target, having no idea how exactly things would play out when he reached it, but trusting that he’d figure it out when he arrived. His path was obstructed several times by soldiers who had no idea of the Musketeer’s intention and simply saw another enemy with which to engage. Athos dealt with them ruthlessly and as efficiently as possible, his focus so intense that he wasn’t even aware of the assortment of bruises and cuts he was collecting along the way.

 

Finally, he was within a few metres of the Spanish officer. He stopped dead as he realized that he had his target’s full attention, the man smirking at him down the barrel of his primed weapon. Their gazes locked for several long seconds and Athos tuned out the sounds of battle around them, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. Having reached a decision to which the Musketeer was not privy, the Spaniard motioned with his pistol for Athos to come closer.

 

Hands clasping his long and short blades, and hanging at his sides, the French Captain slowly closed the distance between them, stopping again once they were only a few feet apart. The mounted soldier dipped his head in greeting, taking in the leather pauldron on Athos’ shoulder as well as the mix of blood and gunpowder residue that painted his face. “Musketeer,” the tone was questioning, hinting at curiosity rather than fear.

 

“Captain,” Athos corrected and the man seated above him raised an eyebrow.

 

“Captain,” the Spaniard repeated, nodding slowly as if contemplating the title. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” the officer asked in more-than-passable French, still remarkably calm. At Athos’ return questioning eyebrow, the man explained, “I have been observing you for some time, and your desire to reach me has been obvious.”

 

For a moment, Athos considered lying to the man and stating that his current position was due to nothing more than pure chance, but he sensed that the Spaniard would see through the lie and that honesty would be his best chance of accomplishing his objective. Momentarily ducking his head in acquiescence, he answered, “You are correct. You hold two of my men and I am here to negotiate for their return.”

 

The officer’s expression flitted from confusion to amusement in the span of a heartbeat, but he was not yet ready to confirm the Musketeer’s words as he replied, “What makes you think I have them?”

 

Adopting an air of weariness that was only partially an act, Athos responded, “Sir, it is clear that you and I understand one another, and these games are a waste of time. I am here to negotiate the release of my men in good faith, and would appreciate if we could dispense with this verbal sparring and get to the point.”

 

The Spaniard regarded him for several moments before agreeing, “Very well. What have you to offer?”

 

Lifting his hands out to the side of his body, Athos answered, “Myself.”

 

The officer laughed heartily at the Musketeer’s reply and Athos allowed a smile to adorn his face, watching the other man as the laughter trailed off, although the pistol in his hand never wavered. Mirth still playing across his features, the Spaniard questioned, “What makes you think that you hold greater value than the men I currently hold?”

 

Athos gave a shrug as he responded, “We are both officers in our respective armies and understand each other’s value.”

 

The mounted solider pursed his lips as if in contemplation before answering, “That is true.” He paused and narrowed his eyes at the Musketeer as he continued, “However, I doubt that you would reveal anything of use.”

 

Athos didn’t comment, but continued to hold the other man’s gaze, silently willing him to accept the deal. As the silence between them stretched, he became aware of the presence of others and realized that his gambit was about to fail, the Spanish beginning to congregate close to their commander at which point Athos would be as good as dead. He bit his lip hard to keep himself from speaking and offering intelligence about his own forces’ plans, something they both knew he would never be willing to provide. He began to subtly shift his grip on his weapons, preparing to fight since the Spaniard seemed unwilling to take him up on his offer.

 

Drawing a deep breath, he was about to act when the mounted officer spoke, “Alright, I accept.”

Athos was stunned for a moment, but willed his face to remain impassive as he reiterated, “You accept?” The Spaniard nodded, waiting for him to drop his weapons, but Athos wasn’t quite ready yet to be unarmed. “You will take me in their place and release them?”

 

The other officer’s expression was morphing once again, this time to one of hard bemusement, “No, I accept that you’ll come with me, and will consider at some point releasing your other two men.”

 

Gritting his teeth at the man’s treachery, Athos’ eyes quickly scanned sideways, confirming what he already knew – he was completely encircled by enemy forces. “You misunderstand, Sir; that was not the deal I proposed.”

 

With a chuckle, the Spaniard smiled down at him and replied, “I know, but I like my terms better.” Athos was about to say more when he was forced backwards a step, a powerful force to his shoulder pushing him back. His left arm immediately grew numb and his main gauche slipped from nerveless fingers. A look down showed blood bubbling up from the hole in his shoulder, and his gaze shifted back to the Spanish officer who was now holstering his pistol. “Bring him along,” he ordered to his men, already turning his horse to depart and giving the Musketeer no further thought.

 

Now what, Athos thought to himself as his vision blurred and the world titled beneath his feet. Moments later his knees turned to jelly and he slumped to the ground unconscious.


	9. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the blink of an eye, he’d raised his pistol and shifted his aim, and Aramis jerked back at the sound of its discharge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great comments on the last chapter. Another longer one for you today - enjoy!

Aramis’ prediction had proven correct, and the Spanish had taken him from their cell for a few hours on the afternoon of the following day so that he could tend to their wounded. They’d been fortunate that the medic had not yet been asked to do much that he disagreed with, leaving d’Artagnan time to heal and regain his strength. The exception had occurred on their second day apart.

 

Aramis had nearly free reign of the Spaniards’ infirmary since he was the best-trained man there, and had been almost finished, noting with disdain that the enemy combatants remained relatively unscathed, especially when compared to some of the injuries that he was aware of among his own brothers-in-arms.

 

As he’d taken a last look around, wiping the blood from his hands with a rag, a stretcher was brought in carrying a man who was obviously in a great deal of pain. Aramis was in motion at once, already indicating to the stretcher bearers where to place the moaning man. When he arrived at his patient’s side, he grimaced at the amount of blood that painted the soldier’s stomach. It was a grievous wound and based on the size and shape, it had been caused by someone’s blade, the steel forced inwards and then up, nearly gutting the man. The medic shook his head at the realization that there was nothing he could do; it was only a matter of time before the soldier bled out and died.

 

Turning to one of the assistants he’d been assigned, he’d ordered the man to bring a dose of laudanum to ease his patient’s suffering, his natural compassion rising to the forefront regardless of the wounded man’s loyalties. However, his assistant remained rooted in place, the Spanish officer who’d since introduced himself as Capitan Peguero, interjecting his own opinion.

 

_“That man is beyond help, yes?” the Capitan asked, no doubt already knowing the answer._

_“Yes,” Aramis confirmed, his gaze momentarily flitting back to his assistant. “I want to give him something for the pain to ease his way.” His wary gaze returned to the officer, fully aware that his assistant still hadn’t moved._

_With a short wave of one hand, the men around them dispersed, leaving them alone with only Aramis’ two guards who stood well back, waiting for their orders. “Laudanum is expensive and in low supply; it makes little sense to waste it on the dying,” Peguero observed._

_Aramis gritted his teeth at the callousness of the man’s response. “I respectfully disagree. Surely you do not want this man – your man – to die in agony?”_

_The commander seemed to consider the medic’s statement and moved closer, peering down at the soldier’s sweaty face, the injured man’s eyes scrunched tightly closed as he nearly keened in pain. The officer’s gaze darted to Aramis as he commented, “He does seem very uncomfortable, doesn’t he?”_

_The marksman managed a tight nod, not trusting himself to speak. “He was a very loyal soldier and performed his duty diligently,” the Capitan remarked, his tone suggesting that he was discussing nothing of greater significance than the weather._

_Another look at the disapproving expression on Aramis’ face had the officer sighing, “Very well, then.”_

_Aramis began to nod, his lips turning up in a ghost of a smile at the Spaniard’s acquiescence. His expression turned to horror seconds later as Peguero drew his dagger and pulled it across the injured man’s throat._

_“No!” the medic roared, jumping forward to try and stem the flow of hot blood, but he was harshly yanked back by his guards, a man attached to each arm. “No,” he breathed out, watching as his patient took a final gurgling breath before succumbing to massive blood loss._

_Aramis turned his astonished gaze to the Spanish officer who was calmly wiping his blade on a corner of the ratty blanket which had covered his man. The air of complete indifference was too much for the medic to take and he lunged, breaking free from one of the men who held him. He almost managed to land a hand on Peguero, but the Capitan took a quick step backwards to remain out of the marksman’s reach. Seconds later, the second guard had regained his grasp on the Musketeer, and Aramis was roughly hauled back a step as the Spanish officer regarded him with interest._

_Tugging at his beard with one hand, the Spaniard stated, “I was wondering how long it would take.”_

 

Peguero had stalked away at that point, his gait relaxed and appearing as though he hadn’t a care in the world, while Aramis had been dragged away by his two guards. It was only fifteen minutes, but the time between their confrontation and when the marksman was returned to his cell seemed interminable. The sight that awaited him had the breath whooshing from Aramis’ body, and he rushed forward to land on his knees next to d’Artagnan’s prone form.

 

In the days since they’d arrived, the Gascon had been improving, his episodes of excruciating headaches and debilitating dizziness slowly abating. In Aramis’ absence, the young man had managed to get up and move around on his own, his body and mind slowly beginning to compensate for his persistent lack of sight. To others, the gains might seem insignificant, but to Aramis, every step forward had been something to applaud, the improvements easing his worry at leaving his friend behind every time that he was summoned away.

 

Now, d’Artagnan lay on his side, nearly curled completely into himself, and Aramis was almost afraid to touch him. Hoarsely, he addressed his friend, “d’Artagnan, can you hear me?”

 

At the sound of the marksman’s voice, the Gascon opened his eyes, looking upwards even though he couldn’t see anything. Aramis let out a relieved breath but then tensed anew, recognizing the lines of pain that furrowed the young man’s brow. “Where are you hurt?” the medic asked, his hands hovering as he waited for direction from his friend.

 

With effort, d’Artagnan uncurled himself, pulling his right hand away from his stomach and letting it rest on his side instead. The medic’s eyes were drawn to the red that coated the Gascon’s hand, and as if sensing Aramis’ distress, d’Artagnan stated, “Not your fault, ‘Mis.”

 

The marksman bit his lip at his friend’s attempt to assuage his guilt, the emotion rolling off him so thickly it was palpable even to a blind man. Resting one hand gently on the boy’s hip, he asked, “Do you think you can roll over onto your back?”

 

d’Artagnan began to shift immediately, his bottom lip sucked in to hold back his sounds of pain. With Aramis’ assistance, the Gascon was soon lying flat on his back, giving the medic an unobstructed view of the young man’s belly. “Don’t think they’re very deep; just meant to hurt a lot,” d’Artagnan muttered, forcibly keeping his hands from his middle since he knew that his friend would want to clean and bandage the cuts.

 

“This is my fault,” Aramis muttered, the words spilling forth without thought as he pushed the young man’s shirt higher to properly view the three slices that bisected his stomach. “Because I didn’t want a dying man to suffer.”

 

d’Artagnan’s left hand reached out, searching for Aramis’ and the medic obligingly caught it in his, still staring at the bloody gashes. “Told you before – this isn’t your fault, and I’m tougher than I look.”

 

“But,” the medic trailed off, his head shaking in denial at his friend’s words.

 

“Aramis, what happened?” the Gascon questioned, needing more information to be able to convince the marksman of his blamelessness. The medic remained quiet for several long seconds until d’Artagnan prompted him again, “Aramis, please.”

 

“There was a man…uh, an injured soldier,” Aramis haltingly began. “He’d been stabbed in the stomach but the wound was too severe.” The medic drew a deep breath before continuing, “He was in agony, d’Artagnan, and it would have taken him an hour, possibly more, before he passed. I just wanted to give him something for the pain, but was told it was a waste to give anything to a dying man.” The marksman fell silent once more and the Gascon waited patiently, recognizing that his friend had more to say. “I just wanted to ease his suffering,” Aramis finally breathed out.

 

Squeezing the hand he still held in his, d’Artagnan replied, “Of course you did, Aramis, and I would expect no less.”

 

Swallowing thickly as he stared at their connected hands, Aramis whispered, “He killed him.”

 

“What? Who?” d’Artagnan’s tone was sharp and it jolted Aramis from his stupor.

 

Licking his dry lips, the medic’s voice was stronger as he repeated himself, “The _Capitan_ ; when he realized the pain his injured man was in, Peguero slit his throat and then walked away as if it was nothing.” There was anger now in Aramis’ words, and the Gascon tightened his grip on his friend’s hand.

 

“There is no reasoning with a madman, Aramis,” d’Artagnan softly stated, and he felt Aramis squeeze his hand in return before it was released.

 

When he spoke again, the medic was all business. “Let’s see what new damage he’s left you with and for which he’ll have to account.” A hint of a smile touched d’Artagnan’s lips as he let his arms fall to the side, allowing Aramis to tend to his midsection with the few supplies they’d been given.

 

That day had been a stark reminder of their predicament, and Aramis had been doubly careful to avoid incurring Peguero’s wrath, d’Artagnan’s bloody stomach bearing too much similarity to the wounded soldier who’d died that day. Fortunately, no new dilemmas presented themselves, and his duties in the infirmary had been relatively straightforward since then. In a rare show of compassion, Peguero had even allowed the medic to bring back clean linen so he could properly bandage d’Artagnan’s wounds.

 

Aramis had politely thanked him, even though gratitude was the furthest thing from his mind; at its forefront were his concern for the Gascon and his desire to escape. While there had been little he’d been able to do with respect to the former, the latter had been aided by their captor’s ignorance of the fact that he spoke Spanish. As a result, he’d been unobtrusively gathering as much intelligence about the workings of the chateau as possible, constantly on the lookout for a key piece of information which would aid their bid for freedom.

 

Thus far he’d been disappointed and the most he had to show for his efforts was the ability to describe, with an astonishing degree of accuracy, which of the men were having relations with the estate’s female staff. Despite his lack of success, he continued to listen diligently, often intentionally positioning himself closer to those conversing in search of the elusive bit of information that would be the key to a successful escape plan. The arrival of a small group of wounded pulled him from his musings and he pushed his frustration aside, reminding himself that their captivity would not last forever. Striding forward, he adopted a caring expression as he addressed the men in French and asked, “Where are you hurt?” 

* * *

It had been five days since their capture. d’Artagnan didn’t actually remember their entire time in captivity, but Aramis had kept track and now they counted the days together, adding a mark to the far wall of their cell each morning so they would not forget. From the first time they’d been separated, the Gascon had made it his objective to regain the independence stolen from him along with his sight.

 

The medic diligently examined his eyes at the start of each day, but d’Artagnan had stopped hoping that the result would be any different from the day before, simply enduring Aramis’ well-meaning actions and inwardly sighing with relief when the medic withdrew. He knew from his friend’s care that the skin around both eyes was beginning to heal, the redness and swelling diminishing a little more each day, but the improvement hadn’t as yet had any positive affect on his sight.

 

It was incredible to him how painful it had been to lose his vision, the effects of its loss far greater than anyone could imagine. The first days he’d suffered debilitating headaches, and Aramis had been unable to state with any degree of certainty whether the pain was linked to his eyes, the strike to his head, or a combination of the two. Next had been the vertigo, which was doubly confusing, since d’Artagnan had no way of focusing on anything to try and regain his balance. It made the simple act of standing an exercise in frustration as the ground seemingly bucked and slid beneath his feet. The result more often than not had been a graceless drop to the ground as his legs had tangled, and he could only move around now with the aid of a wall at his side with which to support himself.

 

It was this ability that he now practiced whenever left alone, determined to be able to walk, and possibly run, when their opportunity to escape presented itself. He knew that Aramis would happily help him in this endeavor, but he could not bear to let his friend see his weakness, the infirmity embarrassing as well as painful. The time the two men spent apart left d’Artagnan with too many hours to think, and his mind dwelled on his complete lack of usefulness now that he was blind. He’d thus far managed to hide his deepening sadness from the medic, putting on a brave face for the man who already staggered beneath the weight of responsibility for both their lives. But when he was alone, he floundered in a bottomless well of despondency, unable to envision a life without sight.

 

At the forefront of his thoughts was Constance. Sweet Constance who had finally become his wife, and for a few fleeting hours as they’d consummated their union, he could not imagine there being any obstacle which they could not overcome. After all, their love had survived infidelity, forced separation, imprisonment and an almost execution. Now that they were together, life would surely present them with nothing less than milk and honey - unless fate determined a different path.

 

In d’Artagnan’s mind, nothing could be as cruel as blindness, leaving the rest of his body and mind fit, while making him completely dependent at the same time. He knew his wife’s character and didn’t doubt that she would stand by him, regardless of any injuries the war might inflict upon him, but he’d seen others bowed by the heavy burden of supporting a cripple, and it wasn’t a legacy he wished to bestow on his spouse.

 

If he was killed, Constance would receive a small pension due to his status as a Musketeer, and be free to marry again rather than spending the rest of her days with a lead weight tied around her neck. The Gascon realized how painful his death would be to his new bride, and yet he still believed that it would be for the best, the brief heartbreak of grief outweighing the lasting sorrow of supporting a man who could no longer fend for himself.

                                                                  

d’Artagnan let out a shuddering breath as a fresh wave of sadness swelled within his chest, and his fingers absently traced the rough surface of the stone wall as he took another step forward. He was resigned to his fate and determined that his legacy would not be that of a soldier crippled in the war. Instead, when the time came, he would do everything in his power to buy Aramis the time needed to make good his escape, distinguishing himself as a brother-in-arms and dying at their enemy’s hand. So decided, he took another step forward, waiting until his friend’s return when he would once more don his mask and pretend everything was alright.

* * *

Afternoon was slipping into evening and Aramis was exhausted. The constant strain of making sure he didn’t say or do anything wrong, along with the responsibility for keeping d’Artagnan safe was beginning to wear on him. The medic was certain the cracks in his well-constructed façade would begin to show at any minute. He’d been in the infirmary for several hours, the Spanish having taken higher than normal injuries, and he chafed with the need to return to their cell to confirm the Gascon’s continued good health.

 

Perhaps good health was too optimistic a term, he thought, as he considered the young man’s ongoing difficulties. He knew that d’Artagnan had been trying to keep up a positive front, but he was also aware of the hours the boy spent awake each night, his body unable to regulate its sleeping pattern without the benefit of being able to differentiate between day and night. Although the Gascon had thought his friend to be asleep, Aramis had still been aware of the young man waking, and had watched as the boy struggled with his frustration and sorrow, aching to wipe away the few errant tears he shed, but knowing the attention would be unwelcome.

 

Aramis had been careful to keep his own concerns to himself regarding d’Artagnan’s continued blindness but, privately, he feared the condition to be permanent. The initial damage caused by the pistol’s misfire was healing, and had reached a state where some of the young man’s vision should have returned; the fact that it had not, did not bode well.

 

He wondered, too, how much longer the Spanish would continue to occupy the chateau, having heard some discussion among the soldiers about the possibility of abandoning the estate and marching further west. He had no idea of the validity of the rumours he’d overheard, but knew from his own experience that the French forces would not be deployed at this location indefinitely; at some point, even their own countrymen would be ordered to move on, despite the influence of the displaced comte.

 

Finishing his last walk around the infirmary to check on the few patients who remained bedridden there, he prepared to signal to his guards his readiness to depart. He stilled the motion of his hand at the commotion that reached his ears, and which announced the arrival of more men. Dragging a hand through his tangled curls, he stopped himself from sighing in frustration at the added delay, already hoping that his newest patient or patients could be dealt with quickly.

 

The first to appear were two armed men, but they neither assisted anyone nor required any care, and Aramis’ eyebrow rose in curiosity at the fact that both soldiers had their pistols out as if in preparation to use them. Next appeared a group of three, the middle man flanked and supported by the two others.

 

At first glance, the medic surmised that it was this man who was his patient. Seconds later the injured man’s head lifted from where it had hung low against his chest, and Aramis’ breath caught in his throat as recognition dawned – Athos! He stood frozen in place as the procession continued inwards revealing the smirking countenance of Capitan Peguero, who also had his pistol drawn and pointed at Athos’ back.

 

A second look made Aramis’ heart speed up as he took in his friend’s wan complexion and weakened state, comprehending now that the men at the Musketeer’s side were supporting and not restraining him. Taking a stuttering step forward, he was shocked to see the two men in front raise their weapons towards him, realizing suddenly that they were there not to prevent Athos’ escape, but his own movement forward. Halting, his gaze swung to the Spanish officer who’d taken a position to one side, his expression questioning.

 

Interpreting the look he was receiving, Peguero smiled as he said, “I see that you are acquainted with our newest acquisition.” Aramis frowned at the description, but gave a careful nod in reply, not trusting himself to speak until he understood the Capitan’s intentions. “He offered to give himself up in exchange for your release,” Peguero commented, waiting to see the medic’s reaction.

 

Adopting a guarded expression, the marksman responded, “Does that mean you intend to release the two of us?”

 

The Spaniard lifted a hand to his chin, cupping it and tapping a finger against his lips as he pretended to consider the question before asking, “Do you think I should?”

 

Aramis’ gaze darted to Athos, but his friend was quiet and refusing to meet his eye, the two men at his side gripping him tightly by the arms and ready to stop him if he attempted to speak. Facing Peguero once more, the medic answered, “I believe I am of far greater value to you than either of my comrades, and it would be best to release them both rather than wasting precious resources on their care.”

 

Athos threw a hard glare in Aramis’ direction, but the medic quickly glanced away and refused to acknowledge it. “An interesting proposal,” the Capitan observed. “Or I could simply keep all three of you, and further cripple your forces through the absence of one of their officers.”

 

The medic forced himself to remain calm, needing to keep a clear head as he and the Spaniard parried. “I could withhold my services if you choose not to honour your bargain,” Aramis countered, recognizing that he was entering dangerous territory.

 

“Yes,” Peguero replied. “I had considered that, but based on what I know of you, I think that an unlikely outcome.”

 

Aramis’ eyes widened in surprise as he asked, “Why would you think that? The lives of your men are meaningless to me.”

 

The Spaniard was nodding now, a cool glint in his eye as he replied, “It is your choice, of course, but if you were to refuse to work in the infirmary, you would also lose the chance to tend to your friends.”

 

Before the medic could explore the Capitan’s statement, he heard the sound of booted feet and he turned towards the sound, only to find d’Artagnan being marched into the room by another set of guards. Recognizing the Gascon’s alarm at not knowing where he’d been taken, Aramis spoke, “d’Artagnan, you needn’t have joined me here; I was almost on my way back.” d’Artagnan’s head swung in Aramis’ direction at once, and the marksman could see the slight relaxation of the young man’s frame when he realized that the two of them were together.

 

Peguero interjected before the two friends could speak further, “You see, your friend was injured and has lost a good deal of blood. I am certain he would appreciate some of your fine needlework.”

 

Aramis noted the Gascon’s confusion by his furrowed brow, but he could not be distracted by it and simply hoped the young man would stay silent. With a cautious look toward the men who’d been keeping him standing in place, the medic took two tentative steps forward as he tried to get a better look at Athos. His eyes narrowed when he detected the darker patch of leather on the older man’s left side, the blood soaked in to turn the deep brown almost black. The medic’s startled eyes swivelled back to Peguero’s now smiling face as he stated, “You stabbed him.”

 

The Capitan gave a one-sided shrug as he corrected, “Shot, actually. The ball’s still in there. Terribly painful, I’m sure.”

 

The Spaniard watched as Aramis’ face blanched before he drew himself up and his expression hardened. The Musketeer knew what orders Athos would issue now if he had the chance, and though it was a difficult choice, he could no longer concede to the Capitan’s demands. As confidently as he could, the marksman replied, “I’m certain that my Captain would order me not to assist the enemy, even if the consequence is his continued suffering.” From the corner of his eye, he caught the look of approval and gratitude that Athos threw his way.

 

The Spanish officer gave another half-hearted shrug as if he’d expected such a response. In the blink of an eye, he’d raised his pistol and shifted his aim, and Aramis jerked back at the sound of its discharge. Time seemed to slow and the medic’s eyes roamed, searching for the hapless victim. A groan reached his ears and his gaze landed on the Gascon, just in time to see him crumple to the ground as his two guards released their hold.

 

“Are you certain you won’t reconsider?” Peguero’s voice taunted from across the room.


	10. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis’ vision flashed white at the sight of d’Artagnan’s crumpling form, his mind registering moments later that that the sound of anguish he’d heard had been ripped from his own throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great comments about the bad guy in the last chapter, which put a huge smile on my face. Hope you enjoy this next part!

Porthos’ hands trembled as he held the parchment between his fingers, his expression reflecting his disbelief and worry at his friend’s foolhardy plan.

 

_My dearest Porthos,_

_I know that you will think me reckless for what I have done, and yet it is a minor thing when compared to all that you and our other brothers have given to this war. Please know that I did not act out of a disregard for my own life, nor do I discount your skill and courage in facing this situation with me. Instead, my actions are driven by cowardice and the knowledge that I cannot continue in this life without my three brothers at my side. It is this selfish fear that has motivated me to attempt to trade myself for the lives of Aramis and d’Artagnan._

_I pray that I will be successful and that you are reading this letter with them, having them back safely at your side while I have taken their place. If things have not turned out as planned, I trust that you will do whatever is necessary to secure their release, since it is likely that I have fallen in battle or succumbed to some other unexpected treachery. Whatever the case, I ask you to forgive what I have done; it is only out of love for my brothers that I make this choice._

_With all my affection,_

_Athos_

 

Porthos’ hand swiped angrily at the moisture that trickled down his cheek. He wanted to be mad at the other man, but the only emotions that surged forth were fear and sadness. That Athos had felt such despair about the three of them nearly broke Porthos’ heart, and he cursed his body’s weakness for keeping him away from his friend’s side during his time of need.

 

He’d managed to get the story from Athos soon after he’d woken when it had become apparent that neither Aramis nor d’Artagnan had been to see him. At that point, the older man had been unable to offer any believable excuses, and he’d shared the tale of the men’s capture before apologizing for his earlier deception. Porthos had wanted to be angry then too, but the desolation in Athos’ eyes had stilled his words, and he’d simply nodded to the older man who had been sitting next to his cot. They’d ended their visit that day promising to find a way to bring their friends home; only now it became apparent that Athos had already decided to act without telling him.

 

Anger swelled again in Porthos’ chest and he fanned the flames, needing the stronger emotion to drive the weakness from his limbs. In his mind, his path was clear, and he needed to get onto his feet so he could first find out if Athos had in fact been among those who’d fallen that day. If not – and Porthos prayed that would be the case – he would lead the charge on the chateau himself, crashing through walls in order to get to his captive brothers.

 

He’d begun to heal in the time since he’d been injured, but the wound had been grave and he’d lost a good deal of his blood and strength. Sadly, over a week later, the latter commodity was still in short supply, and he could barely move from his sickbed unaided. As a result, he’d been kept in the infirmary so that others could assist him with his needs, a reality that he’d been hard-pressed to accept; but he now decided that his time there was at an end. With more effort than he wanted to admit, he rolled from his side onto his back, feeling the sharp ache of his injury as his bulk settled onto the mending flesh.

 

Placing his weight upon one elbow, he pushed himself upwards, grunting lowly against the strain the action placed on his wound as the delicate skin tugged and pulled against the stitches that held it closed. Another act of will had his legs over the side of the bed, his feet firmly planted on the floor while he hunched over his knees, now cradling his head in his hands as he huffed for air. When he no longer felt like he couldn’t catch his breath, he lifted his head and dropped his hands, gauging the distance from his cot to the exit. His mind was whispering to him that it was too far for him to walk on his own, but he ruthlessly pushed the voice away, knowing that he had no other choice.

 

Gathering his remaining strength, he heaved himself up, swaying drunkenly for several moments until his equilibrium returned. He shuffled forward, ignoring the uncomfortable pull of his stitches with every step he took. By the time he reached the entryway, he was sweating buckets and trembling like an old man. He had no idea how much further he needed to go, but right now, Porthos had his doubts about making it more than a step outside before collapsing.

 

As he leaned against one of the tent poles near the doorway, a man appeared at his side, gripping his elbow as if concerned that Porthos was about to collapse. Inwardly, he applauded the man’s observational skills since the assessment was not far from the truth.

 

“Porthos?” the man looked at him with concern. “Do you need help back to your bed?” The man tugged gently on his arm as he tried to move them further inside the tent, and the large Musketeer pulled back, gasping as the action jarred his injury. It took several long moments for Porthos’ breathing to slow and his vision to clear, finally recognizing the man beside him when it did.

 

“LaRue?” Porthos asked, his brain still struggling to function in the wake of his body’s infirmity.

 

“Yes, Porthos, it’s me,” the Musketeer offered a small grin. “It’s good to see you doing better.”

 

The injured man grunted in reply, wondering just how bad things had been if his current state was inspiring optimism. “I need to see the Captain. Can you take me to him?”

 

LaRue was shaking his head before the other man had even finished speaking. “Sorry, Porthos, he hasn’t returned from the battlefield.”

 

Porthos’ expression turned panicked as he said, “Not dead.”

 

The other Musketeer rushed to reassure him as he replied, “No, not dead; at least he hasn’t been found among the fallen. There’s speculation that he’s been captured as well.”

 

LaRue’s words caught Porthos’ attention and his eyes narrowed as he asked, “You knew about Aramis and d’Artagnan?”

 

The Musketeer looked sheepish, but he nodded regardless. “Yes, Porthos, I knew; the whole regiment knows. There just hasn’t been anything we’ve been able to do about it.”

 

The wounded man’s expression hardened and he lashed out. “Well you could’ve bloody well stopped the Captain from trying to sacrifice himself.” The outburst cost him and he sagged as his face screwed up with pain, LaRue’s certain grip the only thing keeping him standing.

 

When Porthos had sufficiently recovered, the other man wore a contrite expression. “I’m sorry, Porthos. We didn’t know anything of what he had planned; if we had, we would have stopped him.”

 

The injured man knew he was hearing the truth. Athos had always been well-respected by the men in the regiment, and that respect had quickly morphed into loyalty as the Captain showed his dedication to his men time and again. There was no way that the Musketeers would have allowed Athos to go through with his crazy plan if they had been aware of it.

 

Exhausted and nearing the end of his endurance, Porthos gave a shaky nod. “I know. I’m sorry, LaRue.”

 

“No apology needed,” the Musketeer replied with a smile. “Let me help you back to bed now, Porthos.”

 

The injured man was more than ready to lay down, but he wanted out of the infirmary and shook his head at LaRue’s offer. “No, help me to my tent. I don’t need to be in here anymore.” The Musketeer looked uncertain, but the last of his resolve crumbled when Porthos breathed out a quiet, “Please.”

 

“Alright then,” LaRue agreed. “But you must promise that you’ll rest and do nothing to set back your recovery. When the Captain returns, he will not look kindly on anyone who allowed you to come to harm.”

 

Porthos appreciated the man’s conviction that Athos would be coming back to them, and gave another minor tilt of his chin in acquiescence. With LaRue’s help, they made their way outside. Porthos wanted to have a look around the camp to see what had changed since he’d been hurt, but his body was rapidly betraying him, and it was all he could do to keep his feet moving.

 

To his credit, LaRue didn’t utter a word of complaint, despite the fact that he was almost carrying the wounded man by the time they’d arrived at Porthos’ tent. The Musketeer took the time necessary to settle Porthos into his bed, before stepping back to consider the larger man. “If anyone can get the Captain back, it’s you, but first you must let us help you heal,” LaRue observed softly, under his breath. With a last look at the now sleeping man, the Musketeer departed, making a mental note to return later to check on the ailing soldier.

* * *

Aramis’ vision flashed white at the sight of d’Artagnan’s crumpling form, his mind registering moments later that that the sound of anguish he’d heard had been ripped from his own throat. He was in motion before rational thought asserted itself, finding himself struggling in the strong holds of two men, while a third soldier was forcibly pressing against his chest and preventing him from moving forward. The battle to move to his friend’s side lasted only a few seconds, but it seemed far longer to the grief-stricken medic. His raw need to confirm that the Gascon was still alive overwhelmed everything else, only coming back to his senses when Peguero strode forward and slapped him heartily across the face.

 

The marksman blinked with the sting, the force of the Capitan’s blow snapping his head to one side and bringing tears to his eyes. The Spaniard stepped back as he saw the spark of recognition return to the enraged Musketeer’s eyes, and he paused several seconds longer before repeating his earlier question, “Are you certain you won’t reconsider?”

 

Aramis’ gaze sought out Athos’, and he could see his own fears reflected back to him in the older man’s expression. _“Give me a sign,”_ he begged silently, needing some sort of direction from the officer. Athos’ chin dipped only slightly, so little that no one else would even notice, but it was enough for the drowning medic. “Yes,” he blurted out, “I reconsider. Now let me tend to their wounds.”

 

Peguero gave a nod of assent to the soldiers who held Aramis, and suddenly he found himself free and nearly sprinting to the Gascon’s side. d’Artagnan lay partially on his front, and the medic’s hand hovered hesitantly, wanting to turn the boy over and check for life while at the same time dreading what he might find. Steeling himself, Aramis guided the young man gently onto his back, cringing at the sight of the Gascon’s head lolled bonelessly. Laying his hand on d’Artagnan’s chest, he waited for the comforting rise and fall, almost collapsing onto his friend’s form when the shallow breaths appeared.

 

“He’s alive,” he pronounced, speaking loudly enough so that Athos would be able to hear him. He turned his attention next to the expanding patch of red that sat high on the young man’s shoulder, the placement mirroring the wound on Athos’ chest. There was a matching stain on d’Artagnan’s back, marking the bullet’s exit point. “I need him moved to a bed so I clean and bandage this,” Aramis announced, continuing to examine the wound as he waited for men to arrive at his side.

 

Several moments passed and there was no sign of movement, prompting the medic to rise from his crouched position and turn to face the room. “What are you waiting for?” he demanded angrily.

 

“They are waiting for my command,” Peguero stated. “Surely, you have not already forgotten who is in charge here.”

 

Aramis’ hands clenched into fists, and he gritted his teeth against the harsh words that bubbled in his chest. With a supreme effort, he replied, “No, I have not forgotten.”

 

The Capitan observed him for a moment before nodding in satisfaction. “Pick which of your friends you want to help.”

 

The medic’s face betrayed his puzzlement, and his words echoed his confusion seconds later. “What?”

 

“I said, choose one of your friends to help,” Peguero repeated. “Really, I was led to believe that you French possessed some basic level of intelligence.” He shook his head for a moment before continuing, “You will be allowed to tend to _one_ of these two men; the other will go without treatment.”

 

Aramis’ eyes widened in shock, already knowing in his heart that he could never choose between the two. He was about to voice the thought, but was interrupted by a low moan and his attention was drawn back to the man at his feet.

 

Crouching down again, he asked, “d’Artagnan, can you hear me?”

 

The Gascon's eyes fluttered, and for a moment Aramis almost expected the brown orbs to lock onto his before remembering his friend’s blindness. Letting his hand cup the young man’s cheek, he spoke instead, “I’m right here, d’Artagnan. Are you with me?’

 

The young man gave a shaky nod, drawing a deeper breath that had him wincing in pain. “What happened?”

 

“You were shot,” Aramis stated, risking a look of contempt at the Spanish officer. “Capitan Peguero and I were just discussing your treatment,” he explained. Then, leaning closer, he whispered, “I’ll be right back.”

 

Standing, he addressed the Spaniard again, determined to negotiate care for both of his friends, “Please, they both need medical attention.”

 

Peguero’s expression turned hard, the outward appearance of calm amusement vanishing. “Choose one, Musketeer.”

 

“But,” the medic began, interrupted almost immediately by the Capitan.

 

“You either pick one or it’ll be neither of them,” the Spanish officer stated, his tone indicating the finality of the offer.

 

Aramis’ agonized expression landed first on Athos, and then on d’Artagnan, returning moments later to the older man. While he loathed choosing between them, there really was only one decision he could make, the ball in Athos’ shoulder posing the greater threat and guaranteeing infection. The Gascon’s wound was almost as likely to become infected, but his odds were better since the lead projectile had passed all the way through. Plus, Aramis believed he might have a chance to tend it later, once they were returned to their cell. “Him,” Aramis stated, motioning toward Athos with one hand, “I choose him.”

 

At his words, the two men guarding d’Artagnan immediately moved into motion, hauling the young man to his feet and out of the infirmary. The Gascon’s head was spinning, both from blood loss and confusion, and he called out helplessly as he was being dragged away, “Aramis, what’s happening? Is there someone else here?”

 

The marksman drew breath to reply and promptly lost it as a fist struck his stomach. His knees turned weak with the blow and he sank to the ground, bent nearly double against the pain in his midsection. For almost a minute, he remained in that position, struggling to pull air into his oxygen-starved lungs. When he’d managed it, he raised his head and shakily pushed himself up to his feet, meeting Peguero’s flinty gaze. Indicating Athos with a toss of his head, the Spaniard said, “You have half an hour. After that, he’ll be taken to a cell.”

 

Athos’ guards dragged him to an empty bed, depositing him none too gently before retreating to the doorway to stand watch. With a hand across his tender belly, Aramis advanced, snagging a small stool on the way and setting it down by his friend’s cot. Sitting, he took several long seconds to simply look at the older man, praying Athos would forgive him for what he’d done.

 

“I assume you had good reason for your decision,” the former comte asked, his left hand coming up to fumble with his armour.

 

Aramis swatted the hand away and began the process of undressing his friend, reminded that they only had a short amount of time together. “The ball needs to come out,” the medic replied. “d’Artagnan’s wound went all the way through; less chance of infection that way.”

 

Athos observed the marksman as he replied, recognizing the deceit in his friend’s answer, but choosing not to say anything about it. “What are you doing here?” Aramis hissed, his joy at seeing the other man now replaced with anger.

 

“I attempted to negotiate for your release,” Athos replied. “I was unaware that the officer I was dealing with lacks any shred of honor.”

 

Aramis gave a low snort at the comment as he added, “You don’t know the half of it.” Their conversation was interrupted as the medic began pulling armour and leather away from Athos’ chest, making the older man blank out momentarily from the pain. When he became aware again, he was lying down and the medic was leaning over him, preparing to remove the lead from his shoulder. “Back with me again?” Aramis asked.

 

Athos gave a slight dip of his chin. In truth, Aramis would have preferred that the injured man had remained unconscious for a while longer, sparing him the pain of having someone dig around in his body for the ball that had lodged itself amidst muscle and bone. Glancing at the guards who waited on him to finish, the medic asked, “Can you bear the pain?” Athos’ eyes tracked the direction of Aramis’ and understood that his friend had no desire to have the Spanish restrain him.

 

“Yes,” he breathed out. “If not, you have my permission to punch me.”

 

The comment brought a ghost of a smile to Aramis’ lips as he was reminded of Porthos. With a small nod, the medic lifted a hand, indicating his readiness to begin. Athos drew a deep breath and then closed his eyes, Aramis understanding the unspoken permission to begin. The process was horrific, and despite Athos’ determination to hold still, his body reacted as the medic dipped a probe into his flesh, the touch igniting a fire that burned down to his fingertips and up into his skull.

 

At Athos’ instinctual lurch to avoid the pain, Aramis began to murmur words of comfort, his left arm coming down heavily across the older man’s upper chest to hold him in place. Occasionally, the litany of comforting words was interrupted by a slightly louder statement, Aramis trying to help Athos by advising him each time when he was doing something new.

 

After the first few minutes, the older man couldn’t distinguish what was being said, simply latching on to the sound of his friend’s voice as an anchor in the angry swells of agony that threatened to swamp him. His breath came in shallow gasps, and were interspersed with low sounds of pain, which Aramis did his best to tune out, focusing only on finishing as quickly as possible so that Athos could rest.

 

As the medic finally pulled the reluctant ball free, the older man went lax, and Aramis pressed fingers immediately to his friend’s throat to confirm that his friend still lived. At the reassuring thrum, Aramis relaxed a little, grateful that the injured man had finally passed out and would have a short reprieve from his pain. He looked down at his trembling hands in disgust, opening and closing each several times as he tried to force them to steady. Once he’d regained some semblance of control, he finished cleaning, stitching, and bandaging the wound, noting the impatient looks he was now receiving from his guards.

 

It was clear that his time was up, but Aramis stubbornly dipped a clean cloth into a bowl of water, taking a minute to wipe the streaks of red from Athos’ face, neck and chest. When he’d finished, he leaned closer and gently shook the older man’s uninjured shoulder. “Athos, it’s time to wake up.” With another glance towards the guards, he added, “It seems your keepers are ready to take you to your new accommodations.”

 

Athos’ eyes slowly opened, and he blinked several times before focusing on Aramis’ compassionate face above him. For a moment, he forgot where he was, and then the memories came flooding back and he licked his dry lips. “That time already?” he asked, annoyed at the weakness of his voice.

 

Aramis gave a wan smile and a nod, lifting Athos’ head up slightly as he brought a cup of water to the injured man’s lips. The older man drank slowly but steadily until he’d drained the vessel, Aramis placing it down on the ground before he addressed his friend once more. “Ready?” he asked, knowing that he needed to get Athos on his feet, and that his help would be much gentler than if he allowed the guards to intervene.

 

With a short nod, Athos raised a hand to the marksman, Aramis gripping it while positioning his other hand at the older man’s back. Both pulling and pushing, the medic managed to get Athos to a sitting position, allowing him to rest for several moments before pulling him the rest of the way to his feet. Seeing the guards approaching from the corner of his eye, Aramis leaned close a last time as he whispered, “Do not worry for us, and take care of yourself.”

 

“You too, brother,” Athos breathed out, surprising the medic with his level of awareness.

 

Moments later, the older man was gone, ripped from Aramis’ grasp, and he could only watch helplessly as the soldiers led the unsteady Musketeer away. Turning to face his own guards, he said, “My turn?” The men stayed silent but motioned him to start walking. With a steadying breath, Aramis complied, praying that he would find d’Artagnan alive and waiting for him.


	11. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He made a promise to himself – he would eat and sleep, and then he would find a way to reunite the four of them, or he would die trying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note to let you know that real life is demanding attention this weekend so I won't be posting tomorrow (Saturday) and will be back to my regular daily updates on Sunday. Hope you enjoy this chapter!

Aramis’ belly clenched in fear when he realized that he wasn’t being taken back to the cell that he and d’Artagnan shared. The medic was anxious to check on the young man, and seethed at the thought of an additional delay. Unfortunately, there was little he could do about it, and his jaw clenched tightly as he forced himself to remain quiet.

 

His eyes widened with surprise as his guards led him outside into a large courtyard, the men prodding him towards a pole standing to one side. Aramis scanned the area for any signs of the Gascon, fearful that his earlier behaviour was about to be punished – or in this case, that d’Artagnan was about to be punished on his behalf. They were now within ten feet of the wooden beam and there could no longer be any doubt that it was their destination.

 

Aramis focused on keeping his steps even and his back straight, unwilling to let any of his nervousness show, certain that the sadistic Capitan was somewhere watching and revelling in his ability to make his prisoners squirm. They strode all the way to the pole and then stopped, the marksman still in the dark about what exactly was happening. Moments later, he was surprised to find himself pushed backwards a couple steps before his arms were forced behind his back and around the wooden beam. One of the hands holding his arms moved and he felt a rope encircle first one, and then the other wrist.

 

Recognizing that any resistance on his part was likely to cause d’Artagnan pain, he allowed himself to be roughly pushed to his knees. He was held there for only a moment before his guards placed hands on his upper arms, pulling him partially upwards as a third man secured his bound wrists to what he thought might be the iron ring he’d seen jutting out from the back of the timber that now held him.

 

Once the soldiers had stepped away, Aramis found himself in the awkward position of having to stand on bent legs, the height at which his arms were held preventing him from either kneeling or standing fully upright. A quick tug on his arms revealed that the rope that held him was too short to allow him any movement, leaving him in an uncomfortable, half-crouched position that would eventually turn painful on his shoulders and thigh muscles.

 

The men who’d bound him had retreated, increasing the distance between them to ten feet. They waited as Aramis felt the first burning in his overtaxed muscles, small beads of sweat appearing at his temples as the strain began to show. It was nearly fifteen minutes later – if Aramis’ internal clock was to be trusted – when Peguero eventually appeared. The man’s stride was relaxed and confident, and he held a glass in one hand, sipping from it with exaggerated pleasure as he drew near.

 

Taking a moment to examine the Musketeer, the Capitan finally spoke. “I see that you are experiencing our unique brand of hospitality.”

 

Dredging up a mirthless smile, Aramis replied, “If this is what passes for hospitality in Spain, then I can understand why my countrymen fight so fervently.”

 

The calm expression on the Spaniard’s face momentarily slipped, and the marksman silently congratulated himself, savouring the look and locking it away as a source of motivation for whatever lay ahead. Peguero recovered quickly, affixing a charming grin to his face as he countered, “I believe that it’s you who have acted discourteously, given your earlier behaviour.”

 

Aramis hesitated for a moment, but he had to know what had happened to d’Artagnan so he risked the question he was dying to ask, “I understood that my friend was to account for any lapses in judgement on my part?”

 

The Capitan dipped his head thoughtfully before responding, “That is true, but I do not know that he would survive today’s lesson, given his unfortunate earlier accident. But,” Peguero leaned closer, as though preparing to share some important secret. “I am confident that you will enjoy learning it in his stead.”

 

The Spaniard took a step back and lifted his face to the overcast sky, the light drizzle landing lightly against his closed lids for several seconds before returning his gaze to his prisoner. “Late afternoon and the rain still persists. I trust you will enjoy your opportunity to _take the fresh air_ as the English say.” With that, Peguero gave a polite tip of his head and walked away, Aramis tracking his nemesis until he disappeared back into the grand house.

 

Now that the man was gone, Aramis allowed himself a small gasp of pain at the burning in his thighs. Leaning against the beam at his back, he carefully stretched one leg out in front of him, allowing the muscle to relax as his other leg and shoulders strained under the added weight. He then repeated the action, giving his other limb a rest, noting that the relief he’d attained in his first leg was already vanishing.

 

Suppressing a groan, Aramis rested his head against the cool, damp wood, closing his eyes as he tried to relax. Peguero had succeeded again, finding a torture that was painful while inflicting no permanent damage. Despite that, Aramis suspected that the Spaniard realized that the worst punishment had nothing to do with his physical discomfort, but with the fact that each minute he spent outside, was another minute that d’Artagnan spent bleeding, and the marksman could only pray that he found the young man alive following his ordeal.

* * *

d’Artagnan’s head was spinning. He’d been roughly dragged back to his cell and dropped inside the doorway; at least, he assumed that was where he’d been brought. The pain in his shoulder, and continued vertigo from his blindness, had left him feeling sick and unable to keep track of the sounds or distance they’d travelled to know where he was with any certainty. When his body hit the hard-packed ground, the jolt of pain that travelled through his left side had him turning his head and upper body weakly as his stomach rebelled.

 

The bout of sickness made his throat burn and his eyes water, and he allowed himself to roll onto his back, groaning softly in misery. He had no idea how long he laid there as he waited for the fire in his shoulder and the dizziness to abate. When the ground no longer felt like it was spinning madly, he shifted to his right and pushed shakily up on one arm. Managing to get to his knees, he sat back on his heels, reaching out with his hand, and hoping to find the reassuring stone wall that he could use to gain his feet; several seconds of fruitless searching proved there was nothing within his reach.

 

Steeling himself for the unwelcome feeling of being adrift, he got a leg in front of him, the knee bent in preparation to stand. Staggering to his feet, he was upright for only a moment before his balance deserted him and he fell heavily back to the ground. The impact sent another spike of agony through his shoulder, and he found himself bent over, retching helplessly as his stomach revolted. There was nothing left in his belly, and he endured nearly a minute of dry heaving before the urge to turn himself inside out subsided. He stayed there for several minutes as he panted against the weakness and pain, waiting for his racing heart to finally slow.

 

He wanted nothing more than to lie down and go to sleep, retreating into the darkness to escape the pain, but he was alone and bleeding, and would need to at least try and tend his wound. Eyes closed, since there seemed to be no reason to open them, he tried to remember the layout of their cell. Recalling the mental picture he’d created based on the numerous times he’d walked the perimeter, he tried to imagine where he was in relation to the door in order to determine the direction he’d need to go to find the nest of blankets they slept on.

 

Picking a direction, he attempted to get vertical, managing only a few seconds longer than the last time before once more crumpling to the ground. This time, his descent was somewhat more controlled and he caught himself on his good arm, the action preventing his upper body and face from colliding with the dirt. He had no knowledge of the fact that his right knee now rested in a pool of his sickness, as he resigned himself to crawl since he could not walk.

 

The motion of pulling himself forward on his knees and one arm was awkward, and each shift of his body pulled on the throbbing holes in his shoulder. He stifled a moan when his knee struck the water bucket, the liquid sloshing over the sides and onto his breeches. d’Artagnan was unaware of the cold water soaking into the leather as he balanced himself, while attempting to search the ground for the linen that Aramis had been able to bring back with him from the infirmary.

 

When his fingers touched the cloth, he gratefully closed his hand around it. Shuffling forward a few more feet until he’d reached the blankets, he shifted onto his backside and leaned against the stone wall. His energy was nearly gone, but he still needed to do something to stifle the blood that he’d felt running down his chest and back. Without his sight, he couldn’t see how bad things were, and would need to rely on touch to assess the severity of his wound.

 

Dropping the bundle of bandages beside him, he momentarily considered probing at his wound with his fingers, dismissing the idea almost immediately as a poor one. Instead, he picked at the top piece of linen with his fingers, balling the cloth before bringing it to his shoulder. He gritted his teeth as he slipped the hand beneath his sodden shirt and pressed against the hole there. The fire that raced through his side would likely have had his vision swimming, but instead, he saw sharp flashes of white exploding in his head with the extreme pain. He breathed hard, gasping at the sensation, feeling the trembling in his arm as he maintained the cruel pressure.

                                                              

When he thought it had been long enough, he released the cloth and let his hand drop to his side, unable to hold it there any longer and not wanting to pull the linen away, lest it restart the bleeding. He picked aimlessly at the other bandages underneath his fingers, recognizing that he needed to care for the exit wound on his back, but lacking the motivation to move. His body felt heavy even as he shivered against the cool stone behind him, and he wished he had enough energy to put his doublet on. The thought evaporated from his brain like mist as he tipped his head back, his right hand stilling as unconsciousness pulled him under.

* * *

Athos sat wedged into a corner, needing the walls at his back both for support, and to ensure that no one would be able to catch him unaware since the spot he’d chosen was almost directly across from the door. His mind had still been fogged from blood loss and the pain of his wound, but he’d registered a set of stairs as they’d travelled downwards and underneath the chateau to its lower levels. As he looked around his prison now, he assumed that Aramis and d’Artagnan likely had a very similar view.

 

Tucking his left arm closer and supporting the elbow with his right hand, Athos considered what he’d seen of his friends. Aramis had looked surprisingly well, a fact that the older man should have guessed earlier since the Spanish had obviously taken the medic in order to tend to their injured. When he’d first laid eyes on the marksman, his relief had left him weak in the knees, and he’d been momentarily grateful for the support of the soldiers at his side. He’d wanted nothing more than to confirm the medic’s good health and to ask about d’Artagnan, but he’d been warned earlier that any attempts to communicate would mean punishment for his men; Athos had nearly bitten through his tongue at times as he’d watched the cocky Spanish officer manipulate the situation in his favour.

 

Most shocking had been d’Artagnan’s appearance and subsequent shooting. Based on Aramis’ reaction to the Capitan, the marksman had a healthy fear for how the man might react, which demonstrated to Athos just how dire their situation was. It had been painful for him to watch as the medic had been cowed into acquiescence, and then further betrayed by only being allowed to help one of his friends. It was this last point that would lead to Peguero’s death, and Athos knew with certainty that if Aramis didn’t kill the man, he would do so himself.

 

As he reflected now on his capture and ensuing confinement, Athos wished he’d been able to have more time with the medic, having precious little information about the Gascon beyond the events he’d witnessed earlier. Aramis had chosen to tend him, the older man considered, which hopefully meant that d’Artagnan’s chances of survival, even without aid, were good. Of course, the medic might have also been betting that he and the Gascon would be confined together, and that he would be able to care for the boy then.

 

Athos forced his left hand into a fist, relishing the flare of pain that resulted, and he groaned lowly with his frustration. He’d intentionally sought out the Spanish officer and willingly given himself up, only to have the man renege on their deal; the result had made Athos’ sacrifice useless and foolhardy. Unknowingly, he mirrored the actions of the Gascon, letting his head tip back against the stone as his energy waned, and moments later, his eyes slipped closed and consciousness fled. 

* * *

Porthos sat on the edge of his cot, wishing he could properly support the wound on his back as it throbbed. He stared at the untouched plate of food beside him, knowing he should be grateful that LaRue had thought to check on him, ensuring his bandages were changed, and bringing him both food and drink. But he’d been less than gracious, rebutting the offer of food, and only allowing his wounds to be tended because he couldn’t afford another infection if he was to be of any help to his friends.

 

He shook his head slowly as he recalled what he’d been told about the day when Aramis and d’Artagnan had been taken. Athos’ guilt had been thick, and Porthos knew his friend had been practically choking on it. Despite that, they’d spoken daily and tried to make plans, looking for a way of getting the two men back that didn’t get all four of them killed in the process. The idea of Athos exchanging himself for the others had never come up, although Porthos knew that the older man would have considered that a viable option at some point. To prevent his friend from following through with such folly, Porthos had intentionally spoken about the men’s anger if Athos were to attempt such a foolish plan. He’d thought himself to be successful, until Athos’ letter had been delivered.

 

Now, anger was the only emotion that Porthos could claim; anger at Athos for his self-sacrificing ways; anger at the Spanish for taking his friends; and anger at himself for not staying at the older man’s side so that he could have helped his friend with his harebrained scheme. Resting an elbow on his knee as his back protested his upright position, the injured man closed his eyes as he forced his tired brain to function.

 

LaRue had said that they’d all been aware of what had happened, and that they’d had no clue of their Captain’s plans. There had been a plain honesty in the Musketeer’s face, and Porthos was confident that what he’d heard was the truth. Layered beneath had been an expression of contrition, LaRue genuinely sorry that their commanding officer hadn’t thought to involve his men in his plans, and Porthos could guess with some accuracy that this latter sentiment was likely shared throughout the regiment.

 

Athos had spoken to him of the lack of support he’d found with the other officers, suggesting that they were on their own in their goal of freeing their friends. With the General absent from their location, their situation had been tenuous, the various officers needing to cooperate as best they could, with none of them having the authority or rank to go against another.

 

The first inklings of an idea tugged at Porthos’ weary brain, an opportunity lying at the edge of his thoughts that he couldn’t yet quite grasp. Removing his arm from his lap, he pressed his fingers into his gritty eyes, wishing for the pain and fog that gripped him to disperse. Dropping his hand, he blinked away the spots that danced in front of his vision, his gaze once more returning to his dinner.

 

He knew that he was setting back his recovery by denying himself food and rest; with a sigh he reached over and snagged a hunk of cheese, biting off a small piece. Slowly chewing the tasteless food, he made a promise to himself – he would eat and sleep, and then he would find a way to reunite the four of them, or he would die trying. Swallowing the food in his mouth, he forced himself to take another bite, pledging that he would make a good meal before lying down to sleep.


	12. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos considered what he’d just gotten himself into, grumbling under his breath, “All for one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the continued support of this story in the form of comments and kudos. Hope you enjoy this next part!

The light drizzle had turned into a heavier rain as the afternoon melted into evening, taking with it the little bit of warmth that the sun had provided. Aramis had long ago passed from discomfort to pain, and then to incredible agony as his muscles were forced to contract without rest. His legs had given out a while ago, and he was too far gone into abject misery to have any inkling of how much time had passed since his weight had shifted completely to his shoulders. The muscles there were also beyond strained, and it was only because his wrists were attached to the wooden beam that he was still upright.

 

If not for the rain, the marksman sensed that he’d be covered in sweat from the exertion of his plight, something that his guards seemed immune to. They gave him only the briefest of glances as they conversed and smoked beneath the overhang of a nearby building, which protected them from the rain.

 

The small part of Aramis’ mind that was still capable of coherent thought recognized that he wouldn’t be able to stand on his own once released, or move his arms until his shoulders had recovered. The latter thought made a low chuckle spill forth, since his condition would prevent him from being able to tend to any wounded that were brought in. It was a small consolation, but was currently the only form of resistance he could muster against the bastard officer who’d treated him and his friends so poorly.

 

He was pulled from his musings when he felt the tug of someone behind him, the action pulling a groan of pain from his as it made the fire in his shoulders flare. He couldn’t feel the hands that were cutting the rope away from his wrists, his hands and lower arms having turned numb with cold around the same time that his legs had given out. As the last bit of rope came apart, he felt himself dropping, but was unable to prevent the fall. Another grunt accompanied his landing as he unceremoniously ended up on the ground on his backside.

 

As he tried to gather his wits, he stared at his legs in confusion, his overwhelmed and weary brain not comprehending why his limbs seemed so lifeless. Several long seconds later, he moaned long and lowly as the blood flowed into his seizing muscles. Aramis would have wrapped his arms around himself if he could have, but they wouldn’t move, and he clenched his eyes tightly closed against the moisture that appeared at the intense agony that now gripped him. Seconds later, a startled yelp was pulled from his throat as his hair was gripped tightly, forcing his head back against the wooden beam.

 

Prying his eyes open, he squinted against the rain that still fell. One of his guards from earlier was the man holding him, and when he saw that he had the Musketeer’s attention, he ordered, “Get up.”

 

Aramis couldn’t help himself and he snorted before replying, “Can’t really feel my legs.”

 

The Spanish soldier seemed unimpressed as his expression hardened, and he reiterated his earlier command, “Get up; unless you’d prefer to return to your previous position?”

                   

The threat had the marksman trying to nod, the guard releasing his head as he received the compliance he’d been searching for. Gritting his teeth, Aramis again tried to move his arms, but the muscles in his shoulders were cramping, and his limbs refuse to obey his commands. Swallowing down his frustration, he returned his gaze to the waiting guard, “I can’t move my arms.”

 

The soldier stared at him for several long moments before motioning the other soldier forward. Positioning themselves on either side of the marksman, they each grabbed an arm and hauled the man to his feet. The action ignited tendrils of sharp pain, and Aramis couldn’t help the loud gasp that escaped him, once more blinking rapidly to clear his vision from the tears that pooled in his eyes. He sagged heavily between his keepers who were the only reason that he was upright, his legs useless and refusing to take his weight.

 

When he wasn’t able to get his feet beneath him, the men angrily began to drag him away, the strain on his arms and shoulders leaving him panting and dizzy with pain. The journey inside was something of a blur, and not just because of the water that annoyingly ran down from his sodden locks and into his eyes. Before he knew it, he was being thrown forward, and he closed his eyes against the anticipated shock of landing, unable to move his arms in time to soften his fall. A grunt accompanied the breath being knocked from his chest, and he rolled weakly to one side as he waited for the multiple aches which had flared to ease.

 

When he felt like he could attempt movement without tearing up, he willed his arms to move, managing to get his right hand underneath him and shakily pushing himself to a seated position. Wearily, he looked around, confirming that he’d been brought back to their cell. It took a few moments for his pain-fogged brain to catch up before he remembered his earlier worry – d’Artagnan! Anxiously, he looked around and blew out a relieved breath when he found the Gascon on the far side of the room, lying on his side on top of the makeshift pallet.

 

Steeling himself for further movement, he tried to get his legs underneath him, but the overtaxed muscles in his thighs refused to cooperate. With a frustrated sigh, he leaned forward instead and managed to get himself moving in an awkward crawl, biting his lip as each movement pulled on his sore limbs. He would have laughed bitterly if he’d known that his current form of motion had mirrored that of his injured friend. It seemed to take forever for Aramis to cross the space between them, but finally the medic found himself at the Gascon’s side.

 

He took a moment to just observe the young man’s chest rising and falling, needing the short rest before he could lift a hand to examine d’Artagnan’s wound. From his visual assessment, he could see the lump of something beneath the Gascon’s shirt, and hoped his friend had been able to apply some form of cursory bandage. It took more than a minute before Aramis felt confident that he could move, and he gritted his teeth as he pulled the reddened linen of d’Artagnan’s shirt away from his chest so that he could peer underneath it.

                                        

What he saw made him frown in concern. Instead of a neatly folded padding of cloth, the linen had been bunched together against the wound, and Aramis was certain he would find that it only stayed in place because of the tackiness of the dried blood beneath it. Shifting, the medic twisted his upper body, not having the flexibility in his shoulders, and pulled the bucket of water and remaining bandages closer. Wetting one, he let it sit against the stained linen, loosening it enough to pull it away and reveal d’Artagnan’s reddened, swollen skin. With infinite care, the medic cleaned the entry wound as best he could, wishing the entire time that he had access to some of the infirmary’s medical supplies.

                                            

When he’d finished with the front, he pulled the Gascon forward slightly onto his stomach, frowning again when the action didn’t elicit even the barest hint of awareness from the injured man. If possible, the back of d’Artagnan’s shirt had an even larger patch of red than the front, and Aramis set about cleaning the exit wound before wrapping the young man’s shoulder in the last of their clean bandages.

 

By the time he was done, he could feel his arms trembling from the strain of their continued use, but he couldn’t rest quite yet. He would have loved to remove d’Artagnan’s bloody shirt, but found he lacked the strength and coordination to properly manipulate his insensate friend’s limbs. Instead, he wrapped the Gascon in one of the blankets before laying his hand on the young man’s brow, relaxing slightly when he felt the relatively cool skin.

                                                                                                                                          

He threw the water bucket a last longing look, wishing for enough cloth to wet and place against his aching shoulders, but d’Artagnan’s need had been greater. A few awkward movements had him lying next to the Gascon, his eyes slipping exhaustedly closed as he sank gratefully into oblivion.

* * *

The pain in his back had dulled while he’d slept, but awakened as soon as he moved. Despite the ache, Porthos pushed himself upwards, letting his feet drop to the ground as he squinted blearily at the light that had managed to get into his tent. Pressing his fingers into his temple, he tried unsuccessfully to quiet the throb that sat behind his eyes. Dropping his hand a moment later, he sighed, the exhale hitching a second later as it pulled on his still tender wound.

 

Glancing around, he noted the absence of the plate that had contained the previous night’s meal. It should have been disconcerting that someone had managed to come into his space to collect the dish while he slept, but he was too tired to dwell on it. Hunched over as he was, holding himself upright with his elbows resting on bent knees, the thought of rising almost had him falling back to his bunk in surrender, before he’d even made the attempt.

 

It was not just his physical ills, but the thought of his three closest friends – his brothers – all held captive in the massive estate, that stole Porthos’ energy. He desperately needed to find a way to help them, but there was little that he could do as a lone soldier in the midst of so many others. As soon as he was well enough to rejoin the battle, he knew that he and the rest of the regiment would be taking orders from another, with the opportunity to follow the lead of another Musketeer most likely taken away from them.

 

The persistent nagging at the back of his mind was back and he gave his head a gentle, frustrated shake, afraid to worsen the pounding in his skull. There was something, an idea dangling just out of reach, and Porthos clenched his fist in dismay as the memory refused to surface. Deciding not to waste any more time chasing a recollection that refused to be caught, he gingerly reached one hand out to snag his boots, trying to stabilize himself with the other. The action still pulled a grunt of pain from him, but he refused to acknowledge the stabbing sensation in his back, forcing himself to continue moving. It took several minutes, and more periods of rest than he’d ever care to admit, but Porthos was finally standing, fully dressed and braced against a tent pole while he waited for the ground to stop swaying.

 

Once he felt steadier, he exited, stopping just outside to take in the day. He’d been correct that it was daytime, and from the position of the sun, he’d slept through the morning and well into the afternoon, his fatigued body keeping him under far longer than was normal. Based on the number of men mingling about, he guessed that the day’s battle was over. Taking another shaky step forward, he began walking, uncertain of his destination, but unable to remain on the sidelines any longer.

 

His gait was still somewhat unbalanced, each movement pulling on damaged muscles, but Porthos gritted his teeth and pushed on. Several of his brothers-in-arms spotted him and either waved or called out greetings as he passed. He nodded in return, lacking the energy to lift a hand and worried that stopping to talk would leave him unable to start again. He was surprised to find another at his side, having been so focused on simply putting one foot in front of the other.

 

“It’s good to see you up again,” LaRue commented, having slowed his pace to walk alongside the injured man. “Sleep well?”

 

Porthos grunted, unable to take his frustration out on the man who’d been taking care of him no matter how poor his mood. The Musketeer motioned toward the battlefield with his head as he continued, “We didn’t fare too badly today, but I’m afraid that without reinforcements, it’s a lost cause.” LaRue scrubbed a hand tiredly through his thick, greasy hair as he lowered his voice, “At least Athos was able to talk a small amount of sense into them while he was here. Without a commanding officer, we’ll be lucky to survive the rest of the week.”

 

The words triggered the elusive memory, and Porthos could clearly hear Treville’s words in his head. His abrupt stop had LaRue gripping his arm, and the injured man looked down dumbly for a moment before he realized the Musketeer was concerned about him. “No,” he shakily shook his head. “I’m alright.” The other man locked gazes with him for several seconds before releasing his hold, even though his hand stayed close in case Porthos faltered. “Really, LaRue. I’m still healin’ but I’m not about to fall flat on my face.”

 

LaRue gave a hesitant nod as they began to move once more. “The officers all together?” Porthos asked, referring to the men’s habit of congregating to debrief the day’s attack while they waited for the tally of the wounded and dead.

 

“Yes,” LaRue replied, “Regular as clockwork, they are.”

 

“Were you serious about you said earlier?” Porthos asked as they walked. “About followin’ Athos if you’d known his plan?”

 

“Of course, Porthos, you know any man in the regiment would willingly die for him,” LaRue stated with conviction.

 

“And if I had an idea to get him back?” Porthos pressed, needing to know if the regiment’s loyalty to Athos would extend to him.

 

“What?” LaRue replied, confused by the odd line of questioning.

 

Porthos stopped and pinned the Musketeer with an intense stare as he repeated, “Would the men support a plan to get the Captain back?”

 

“Yes,” the word spilled forward effortlessly, and the recovering man gave a short nod of satisfaction.

 

“Then I need to speak with the officers,” Porthos stated, managing to assume his painful shuffling gait once more. LaRue remained silent, but accompanied him to the tent that housed the men Porthos sought. The injured man paused outside as he turned to the Musketeer, “You don’t have to come in.”

 

LaRue looked briefly at the entrance to the command tent, and then returned his gaze to the man at his side, a faint hint of a grin touching his lips. “I think it might be best if I did.” Porthos gave a short dip of his chin in acknowledgement before pushing his way in, LaRue falling in behind him.

 

It took several moments before the men noticed they were no longer alone, Chauveau looking up to peer at the new arrivals. “You have today’s list?”

 

Porthos gave a minor shake of his head, “No, Sir, I’m here about another matter.” The officer’s eyebrows rose slightly and the injured Musketeer could feel everyone’s eyes on him. “I understand that our Captain was captured.” Porthos resisted the urge to pause, the words passing uncomfortably through his throat. “I’d like to ask you to name me as his successor.” In his peripheral vision, he could see LaRue startle, but the Musketeer remained silent, straightening a moment later in silent support.

 

The officers traded glances with one another, silently exchanging their opinions on the matter as Porthos stood at attention, the pose pulling uncomfortably on his stitches. He kept his eyes firmly fixed on a point beyond Chauveau’s shoulder, refusing to allow any of his anxiety to show, and could sense LaRue doing the same.

 

Chauveau’s expression was clearly conveying distaste, and Porthos wondered how much of the man’s opinion was linked to the dusky hue of his skin. Dubois was looking more contemplative than anything else, and it seemed that he cared little for the outcome, perhaps waiting to hear which of his two peers would be able to sway him to their side. It was the third man who Porthos was counting on, but he dared not turn and look at him, de la Grange positioned almost directly at his back. It would have been better to have been facing the comte, but Porthos could not take the chance that the other two officers would feel slighted and deny his request outright as a result.

 

Porthos forced his breathing to remain calm, feeling the trickle of sweat that slipped from his temple as the pain in his torso increased with every second that passed. He prayed for the men to make a decision quickly, and almost startled when the comte spoke. “He’s right; the Musketeers need a leader and this man is the only one who’s stepped forward to take command. I say give it to him.”

 

Dubois glanced in Chauveau’s direction, expectantly waiting for the other man to chime in. As expected, it was the older officer who spoke against Porthos’ appeal. “It’s a highly unusual request and we really don’t have the authority to grant it,” he began.

 

Taking the risk, Porthos interjected, “If I may, Sir, the practice of granting a field promotion is a common one during times of war.”

 

Chauveau snorted in derision, communicating clearly what he thought of the practice. “However,” he drew out the word mockingly. “It can only be granted by a General, and as you can see, that’s a rank that’s clearly missing. Besides, we’ve no guarantee that the regiment will follow you.” He smiled thinly at his pronouncement, the smugness apparent on his face.

 

Dubois finally spoke up, having decided which side he wished to support, “I don’t think we should be too hasty. It’s true that the promotion must be conferred by a General,” he looked pointedly in Chauveau’s direction and nodded before turning to catch the comte’s eye. “Nevertheless, I believe we have the power to convey the title to this man, however temporarily, until we rejoin the General’s forces.”

 

It was clear that Chauveau wanted to speak against him, but Dubois hurried on before the other man could interject, “If the General wishes to reverse our decision later, then so be it. As to your other concern,” he turned his attention next to LaRue. “Will you and the others follow this man’s lead?”

 

The Musketeer impossibly straightened even further as he declared, “I can assure you, Sir, the entire regiment is prepared to follow Porthos.”

 

Porthos stilled the little flutter of pride at LaRue’s words, even as he remained still, almost holding his breath as the silence stretched until finally the comte spoke, “It’s settled then.” He clapped a hand against his thigh in satisfaction. “Congratulations, Captain.”

 

The wounded man now risked turning to face the comte as he tipped his head, “Thank you.” Scanning the expressions of the other two men, he announced, “I’m going to go check on the status of my men, and I’ll be back tomorrow morning to discuss the day’s orders.” He received nods in reply and turned stiffly, exiting the tent as quickly as he could without letting his deep discomfort show.

 

He managed several stiff steps that moved him away from the command tent before his hand reached out to grip LaRue’s. To the man’s credit, the Musketeer had been expecting the action and held Porthos tightly by the arm as he leaned in closely and whispered, “Your tent?”

 

Porthos gave a tight nod as he gratefully gave over some of his weight to the other man. Together, they made it back to the injured man’s tent before he could actually collapse, even though Porthos knew it was probably a close thing. Once he was sitting on his bed and had taken a minute to recover, he looked LaRue in the eye and said, “We’re getting Athos back.” The Musketeer gave a small tilt of his chin as he waited for more. “Why don’t you bring our dinner and then tell me about the state of the regiment.” LaRue grinned as he left to do as he’d been asked, while Porthos considered what he’d just gotten himself into, grumbling under his breath, “All for one.”


	13. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seconds later, an anguished cry rent the air as Peguero doled out his punishment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great reaction to Porthos' promotion in the last chapter. Next up, we see what Peguero's been up to in his free time. Enjoy!

Athos awoke to grayness. Blinking his eyes several times revealed merely the fact that his vision was intact, and that his cell was only dimly illuminated, with the first weak rays of sunshine passing through the barred window of his prison several feet above his head. He inhaled more deeply as his senses began to return, only to let out a few, harsh coughs as his throat and chest reminded him of their disapproval at his cold, damp surroundings.

 

Forcing the air from his chest had reawakened the throbbing in his shoulder, and he took advantage of the fact that he was alone to groan long and lowly at the persistent ache. He’d had a bad night, falling unconscious, but unable to stay that way as he straddled the space between awareness and oblivion as the pain in his shoulder gnawed at raw nerve endings. Getting shot was never pleasant, but his treatment before and after at his guards’ hands had ensured that his suffering was deepened. With another moan, Athos screwed his eyes shut as he pushed against the ground with his feet, attempting to shift himself into a more upright position against the wall at his back.

 

He aborted the idea almost at once as the throbbing in his shoulder reached a fevered pitch that had him curling over his cradled arm, and praying that the blackness encroaching on his vision would win. It seemed that it was not to be so, however, and more than a minute later found Athos’ panting breaths slowing as he weakly lifted his head. His greasy hair hung over his eyes as he blinked away the moisture in them, letting his head drop back against the cold stones of his prison. Part of his brain told him that he should be getting up and searching for a means of escape, but the part connected to the left side of his body insisted he remain exactly where he was.

 

Holding his upper body as still as possible, Athos’ allowed his head to roll first in one direction and then the other, taking in his surroundings. Several feet away he spied a bucket, and he licked his dry lips unconsciously as he wondered if he’d been provided with drinking water. He managed to ignore the temptation of quenching his thirst for only a few minutes before his need overcame the apprehension of movement.

 

With fumbling fingers, he undid two of the clasps on his doublet before maneuvering the hand of his injured shoulder inside, giving it some support. With his good hand now free, he rolled towards it and used the wall behind him to pull himself awkwardly to his feet. His head swam with the change in altitude and he braced himself against the rock barrier, canting his head towards the cool stones as he waited for the nauseating feeling to pass.

 

When he felt steadier, he reopened eyes that he didn’t remember closing and took several shuffling steps towards the bucket. Looking down, he almost smiled at the sight of water as well as a ladle that he’d missed from his previous position. Crouching down carefully, he picked the dipper up and brought it to his mouth, drinking deeply before refilling it and draining its contents once more. Dropping the ladle back into the bucket, he ignored the weakness in his body that made his limbs feel heavy and sluggish. It was not an unfamiliar sensation, caused by the severity of his wound and compounded by a poor night’s sleep, and despite his weariness, Athos forced himself to move.

 

Keeping his hand on the wall, he shuffled around the perimeter of the room, unknowingly mirroring d’Artagnan’s actions as the Gascon had slowly become more aware. When he’d completed two full circuits, he gently lowered himself down in the same corner he’d occupied earlier, his energy all but depleted. He’d just gotten as comfortable as he could when a sound at the door had him wishing he was still standing. There was no way he could rise before the door swung open, so Athos resigned himself to meeting whatever was to come while seated on the ground.

 

His two guards from the previous day appeared in the open doorway, and they paused for only a heartbeat to confirm that he was awake before ordering him to his feet. Athos gamely did his best to comply, but when he moved too slowly, he was tugged upwards and pulled along. This time, he paid more attention to his surroundings, confirming what he’d suspected earlier and noting several more doors just like his set in the passageway they passed through.

 

He didn’t let his surprise show when he found himself back on the upper floors of the chateau, their journey ending when he was brought into a large dining room and seated at one end of a heavy oak table. His guards maintained their grip on him as he looked across the table at his captor, the man setting his knife and fork down, and then dabbing delicately at his lips with a napkin before addressing his prisoner. “Captain, we are both officers and, as such, can behave like gentlemen. I have invited you here to share a meal with me, but you won’t be able to eat if you are tied. Can I trust you not to try anything?”

 

Athos considered the man across from him with thinly veiled disdain. On second thought, perhaps he hadn’t hidden his thoughts very well, as Peguero seemed to interpret his intentions as though the Musketeer had spoken them aloud. “May I remind you that I still hold two of your men. It would be a shame if they had to suffer for your actions, don’t you think?”

 

Athos’ jaw clenched tightly for several seconds and then he gave a tight nod in return, indicating his willingness to behave. The Capitan’s face lit up with a broad smile, even though it lacked any semblance of warmth, and the guards released their grip. Peguero had resumed eating, and Athos looked down at the plate sitting in front of him, more interested in the sharp knife that lay to its left. A glance in the Spaniard’s direction had him resting his good arm on the armrest of the chair, correctly guessing that Peguero was waiting for him to make a foolish attempt to arm himself.

 

They sat that way in silence for several minutes, Athos staring at Peguero while the other man ate. With a groan of satisfaction, the Spaniard laid down his utensils, and again applied the napkin to his mouth before dropping it on top of his empty plate. With an exaggerated politeness, he motioned at the Musketeer’s untouched food, “Is this not to your liking?”

 

“I find the experience of being in enemy hands affects my appetite,” Athos replied dryly.

 

Peguero’s lips turned upwards in amusement, although his eyes remained dark and flat. “An interesting observation, and one I cannot claim to have any experience with, however others in your position may have expressed a similar sentiment.”

                            

Athos didn’t comment, but found it interesting that the man would choose to intentionally share the fact that he’d never been held captive. He wondered briefly if he’d been told the truth or if the man was simply trying to make him anxious. Before he could think about it further, the Capitan was speaking again. “Your man, Aramis, seems to believe that you will not share anything of value with me. Is that true?”

 

The Musketeer inclined his head briefly in agreement. “Shame,” Peguero stated, his expression shifting to one of mock disappointment. “Not even under threat of torture?” he pressed. Athos shook his head in reply. The Capitan let out a loud huff, even as he relaxed back into his chair, his hands hanging loosely over the ends of the armrests. “I had thought as much, but needed to confirm it. You understand?” Athos again gave a slight nod, wondering if things would truly be this simple.

 

He received his answer moments later as the dining room’s double doors opened to allow another group of men to enter. The first who entered positioned two chairs to the side of the large table, far enough away that anyone seated in them would have to take several steps to close the distance. Next came two sets of three men, the ones on the outside guarding the men in the middle of each trio. They moved swiftly towards the chairs, depositing their charges and then holding them in place while still more men bound them tightly with rope.

 

The entire procedure took less than a minute, and Athos’ eyes widened in surprise as he stared at the newest arrivals. “Now then, will you be more cooperative if I threaten the lives of your men?” Peguero asked, confident he already knew the answer as he took in the stricken expression on the Musketeer’s face. 

* * *

d’Artagnan sat quietly, extending his senses as far as they could reach as he searched for any clue that would help him understand what was happening. His lack of vision was frightening in its capacity to rob him of his independence and ability to protect himself. He’d been awake, though not fully aware, when the men had stormed into their cell that morning. Four men, Aramis had stated lowly, and the Gascon had found himself grateful for his friend’s new habit of verbalizing what was happening, given that he was literally “in the dark” about his surroundings. They’d been marched some distance through a dizzying number of twists and turns, which he’d be surprised to find out was not nearly as confusing as his sightless eyes made it out to be.

 

Their journey had been made doubly hard by the aching of his shoulder, and the guards who’d dragged him along seemed to give little consideration to their prisoner’s pain. Being dropped into a chair and bound had almost seemed a relief, taking away the need to keep his wobbly legs underneath him.

 

Uncertain about whether or not he and Aramis were still together or where they were, he was immensely thankful when he caught the medic’s lowly hissed, “Peguero.” The sound came from his right, and he could only assume that his friend was similarly restrained. The knowledge gave him a small measure of comfort, and he did his best to slow his breathing and relax, hoping that it would ease some of the fire in his shoulder.

 

The entry and exit wounds were tender and still oozing blood, Aramis lacking the necessary supplies to close the holes in his flesh. He had no memory of the man’s return to their cell, but had woken some time later, blinking for a few moments in the darkness before recalling that it made no difference whether his eyes were open or closed.

 

_“Aramis?” he croaked out, surprised at how parched his throat and mouth were. As if sensing his need, he felt something pressed to his lips seconds later and parted them obligingly, allowing Aramis to tip the cool liquid within into his mouth. d’Artagnan swallowed greedily until the ladle was pulled away, and he could hear a faint splash of water as it was replaced into the bucket._

_Next came Aramis’ soothing tones, the man doing his best to provide the little bit of comfort he was able, wondering if the young man was even aware of the whimper he’d made when the water had been taken away. “Calm, d’Artagnan, you can have more later. Best to take things slowly for now and make sure your body doesn’t reject it. I can assure you that getting sick would be a less than pleasant experience right now…for both of us.”_

_The Gascon gave a shaky nod, feeling something warm and soft behind his head. It dawned on him then that he was partially upright and warmer than he’d been for some time. Despite the blankets they’d been given, their nights were still cool enough to be uncomfortable, and he’d shivered his way through most of them. Tipping his face upwards, he asked again, “Aramis?”_

_He could feel the rumble in the man’s chest as his friend chuckled softly and replied, “Yes, d’Artagnan, I’m here.” There was a soft sigh, and the Gascon could almost picture the look of worry etched into his friend’s fine features as his tone changed. “It’s good to see you awake.”_

_The words were simple, but full of relief and unspoken meaning: I was worried; I’m glad that you’re not dead. d’Artagnan could relate and had thought the same nearly every day since the war had begun, anxiously awaiting the moment their foursome was reunited at the end of each battle, and only then being able to breathe freely after confirming with his own eyes that his friends had survived another day. The memory was bittersweet, reminding him that he’d never again be able to confirm his brothers’ health by laying eyes on them._

_Refusing to allow the melancholy mood to take hold, he focused instead on the unrelenting ache in his left side, bringing a trembling right hand up to touch the wound. His fingers were intercepted and his hand gently guided downwards, Aramis’ warm hand remaining clasped around his. “I’m sorry, d’Artagnan, there wasn’t much I was able to do.”_

_It took a moment for the Gascon to process the words and understand what Aramis was referring to. When comprehension dawned, he gave a minor shake of his head. “Not your fault, Aramis. I wasn’t strong enough to stay awake and stop the bleeding.”_

_The mirthless huff that followed jarred the young man’s body, and he hissed with the momentary increase in pain. “Sorry, sorry,” Aramis mumbled as he squeezed the hand he still held. d’Artagnan found himself squeezing back, grateful for the touch that kept him grounded in a world he could no longer see. They sat quietly for a while, the medic apparently unwilling to cause his friend any more pain, while the Gascon was still too hazy to be thinking clearly. He had no idea how much time had passed when the thought occurred to him and he asked, “What happened?”_

_“What?” Aramis’ tone was sharp, clearly expressing his worry. “You were shot; don’t you remember?”_

_d’Artagnan couldn’t help himself and rolled his eyes, even though the medic wouldn’t be able to see the action from their positions. “No,” he began and then changed tactics as he realized what he’d said. “I mean, yes, I remember that I got shot. What I meant was, what happened before that? What was the choice Peguero forced you to make?”_

_The medic had forgotten that the young man would have no way of knowing of Athos’ presence, and his heart felt heavy with the realization that he’d have to be the one to share the bad news. His head dropped for a moment, and d’Artagnan could feel the medic’s hair brush his face before it lifted away again. “d’Artagnan, Athos is here.”_

_“Here?” the Gascon replied, automatically attempting to raise himself up._

_Aramis tightened his grip, and winced to himself at how easy it was to hold the young man in place. “No, not here in this room; here in the chateau, as Peguero’s prisoner.”_

_“Oh,” d’Artagnan breathed out, his body collapsing more fully into the marksman’s hold. “Is he alright?”_

_A hint of a smile played at the medic’s lips at his friend’s predictability in asking after Athos’ health. “He’s doing as well as he can be with a hole in his shoulder.”_

_The Gascon’s head tipped to the left, sightless eyes straying towards his own wound, “Peguero shot both of us.”_

_Aramis nodded as he answered, “Yes, but it’s not what you think. Athos was already wounded, and I took a stand and told Peguero that I would no longer treat his men if not allowed to help Athos. That’s when he shot you and told me I wouldn’t be allowed to treat you unless I reconsidered. After I agreed, he told me I could only help one or the other of you.” Aramis’ voice grew quiet and d’Artagnan could feel the small shuddering breath the medic took. “I’m sorry; I chose Athos.”_

_Once more, d’Artagnan tipped his face towards his friend, wishing for the thousandth time that he could see. “There’s no need to apologize, Aramis; you did nothing wrong.”_

_The young man’s statement stirred the anger from the previous night as the medic replied, “Nothing wrong? I let them take you away, not knowing if you would bleed to death before I saw you again.”_

_The Gascon increased the pressure on his friend’s hand. “Aramis,” he interjected. “I know that you would not make such a decision lightly. If you chose Athos, there had to be a very good reason.” He waited for the medic’s reply, and when none was forthcoming, he went on, “Athos’ wound was more serious, wasn’t it?”_

_“Yes,” Aramis breathed out his answer after several long seconds, still feeling guilty about his choice and angry at Peguero’s deception._

_“Then you made the right decision,” d’Artagnan said with finality._

It was difficult to tell whether Aramis had believed his statement or not, but no more was said about the matter, the medic turning his attention to checking d’Artagnan’s wounds instead. The Gascon had borne the process stoically, unsurprised to hear that there was still some fresh blood staining the bandages that covered the entry and exit holes. He’d been injured enough times to recognize the tell-tale symptoms of blood loss, and knew that his muddied thoughts and the chill running through his bones, was due to more than his blindness and the cold stone walls that surrounded them.

 

He was brought back to the present by Peguero’s voice, the man sounding incredibly smug as he asked, “Now then, will you be more cooperative if I threaten the lives of your men?”

 

d’Artagnan’s head turned automatically towards the sound of the Spaniard’s voice, puzzlement clear on his face as he waited for Aramis to offer some form of clarification. Unknown to him, the medic currently had a pistol aimed at his head as he was silently ordered to stay quiet. The Gascon’s ears strained and he felt his breathing grow shallow, trying to silence the racing of his heart lest it drown out the lowest murmur of sound around him. The stillness continued for so long that d’Artagnan began to question whether there was anyone else there, until finally a voice broke the quiet.

 

“I had expected as much,” the Capitan declared, his tone reflecting his confident and relaxed demeanor. “I find hollow threats a waste of time, therefore I won’t try and convince you of my seriousness when I say that your silence will mean pain for your men. Instead, I offer you some modicum of control in a situation in which you have none. Which of your men will pay for your lack of cooperation?”

 

d’Artagnan felt a shiver run up his spine at Peguero’s words, certain now that Athos was refusing to cooperate, and that either he or Aramis would be punished for his defiance. Unwilling to add to the guilt he knew that Athos would face at such a choice, he did his best to straighten in his chair as he schooled his features into a neutral expression. When he heard his mentor’s voice, he was unsurprised that it spoke Aramis’ name since Athos would pick the less-injured man. Despite the logic of his friend’s choice, the Gascon cringed at whatever the marksman would have to endure.

 

Seconds later, an anguished cry rent the air as Peguero doled out his punishment.


	14. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As if sensing his thoughts, LaRue leaned closer, whispering lowly so that only Porthos could hear his words, “It’s alright; they’ll understand and won’t think any less of you. You must have faith.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your continued interest in this story, and for those of you who were hanging on by your fingernails after chapter 12, I promise there's no cliffhanger at the end of this next part. Enjoy!

Aramis had been heartened when d’Artagnan had finally woken partway through the night, having shifted the young man against his own chest when he’d noticed the shivers that racked the Gascon’s thin frame. Blood loss was a major contributing factor, and the medic was mindful of the potential for shock, prompting him to hold d’Artagnan close in an effort to stave off the life-threatening condition. The grip he maintained on his friend increased the burn in his stressed shoulder muscles, but he resolutely ignored the sensation, the guilt of his earlier choice gnawing at his soul.

 

They’d spoken briefly while the young man was awake, Aramis taking advantage of the opportunity to check on the Gascon’s wounds and help him drink several mouthfuls of water. d’Artagnan had drifted in and out of sleep afterwards while the marksman kept watch. It was not that he wasn’t tired too, but his worry for the young man worked as a natural stimulant that, when combined with his own aching body, guaranteed he wouldn’t be resting that night.

 

When the guards had arrived to take them from their cell, Aramis had only enough time to let d’Artagnan know of the men’s presence before being forced to release his hold, while the Gascon was pulled from his grip. The marksman longed to fight back against their captors, but the ever-present threat to d’Artagnan, and now Athos, kept him from acting. When they entered the dining room, Aramis felt a surge of elation at seeing Athos sitting at one end of the impressive table, the feeling fleeting almost immediately as he registered Peguero’s presence at the other end.

 

His time for contemplation was brief as he and d’Artagnan were pressed into chairs, coarse rope wound around their chests and the seatbacks to prevent their escape. A glance in the Gascon’s direction highlighted his friend’s confusion, and he opened his mouth to offer a few words of comfort before closing it again. A guard had levelled a pistol at his temple, the man shaking his head in warning to stay silent.

 

Aramis looked next to Athos, the older man looking pale and worn by the events of the last twenty-four hours, and he could feel his fingers twitching with the desire to check his friend’s wound. Instead, he had to satisfy himself with the reminder that he’d thoroughly scrubbed and stitched the bullet hole the previous afternoon, trusting that he’d done a good job of things.

 

Peguero was speaking now, and Aramis pulled his gaze from the former comte, settling it on the man he’d grown to hate over the length of their short captivity. He knew without a doubt that he would take the Spaniard’s life; the only question was when. “Now then, will you be more cooperative if I threaten the lives of your men?” The marksman had to work hard not to let disgust show on his face, the Capitan once more taking advantage of the Musketeers’ fierce loyalty for one another.

 

A look back in Athos’ direction showed how troubled he was by the unfortunate turn of events, and yet Aramis knew that they should have expected this possibility – they were at war, after all. Athos’ shock and fear lasted for only a heartbeat, but it was enough time for the marksman to have seen it, and worse yet, for Peguero to have registered it as well. The next words out of the Spaniard’s mouth were eerily similar to the ultimatum that Aramis himself had dealt with the prior day, and the marksman ached for his friend at having to make the difficult decision.

 

Without words, there was little Aramis could say to comfort his friend, but he resolutely held Athos’ gaze, letting him know that no matter what came next, he was already forgiven. The medic was painfully aware of d’Artagnan’s poor condition and did his best to communicate that to his Captain, praying that their ability to speak without words would not fail them now.

 

Athos’ eyes were full of anguish, though he no longer showed any sign of it on his face, his mask having slipped neatly back into place after his initial shock. Aramis held his friend’s gaze for so long that he worried that Peguero might grow impatient with them and withdraw his offer to choose, until Athos looked away and voiced his decision.

 

When the marksman heard his name, he almost sighed with relief, not relishing the idea of being tortured, but unable to watch as d’Artagnan was hurt once again. Steeling himself, he swore that no matter what, he would not cry out, refusing to give Peguero the satisfaction or make Athos feel any worse about his choice. As he prepared himself, still unsure of what would happen next, he was startled to hear a gasp of pain from his left.

 

His head swivelled so quickly that the man holding the pistol to his head didn’t have an opportunity to follow, suddenly aiming the weapon at nothing more than air. Several feet away from him, d’Artagnan was hunched over as much as his bindings would allow, his breaths loudly sawing in and out of his chest. One of the guards stood behind him, a hand on the Gascon’s left shoulder, and Aramis’ brow furrowed as he wondered if that was what had caused the young man to cry out. Moments later, the soldier’s hand withdrew from d’Artagnan’s chest, bringing with it a bloody blade, drops of red already slipping down its length to darken the rug beneath their feet.

 

d’Artagnan breathed in harsh gasps now, flinging his head back as his body struggled to take in air over the excruciating pain he was experiencing. His eyes were tightly closed, and Aramis could see the sheen of sweat that covered the young man’s face, his lips parted as he panted in a vain attempt to manage the tide of agony engulfing him. It seemed like an eternity, but finally the Gascon’s breathing slowed, and Aramis found his own doing the same, having unconsciously matched his inhales to his friend’s. His attention was pulled back to Athos as he heard the older man speaking, his tone low and dangerous, and warning of retribution.

 

“You are a man without honor,” Athos stated, and Aramis could see that his friend was barely maintaining control over his emotions. “You offer me a choice, but then ignore it. Is this how you deal with everyone with whom you come into contact?”

 

Peguero didn’t seem the least bit fazed by the Musketeer’s comment, replying, “On the contrary, Captain. I honored your request that it be Aramis who suffer.” The Spaniard turned his gaze toward the marksman, even though his words were still intended for Athos. “From the expression on your man’s face, there can be no doubt that by hurting his friend, I have hurt him. Especially since he knows that he won’t be allowed to tend the wound.”

 

Aramis’ stomach dropped along with his gaze, unable to refute the Capitan’s statement, and knowing that Athos understood the truth of it as well. He swallowed thickly, praying for Athos’ brilliant mind to find a way to end things without d’Artagnan enduring yet more torment. Although he understood that the older man could not divulge any of their military’s plans, Aramis knew in that moment he would forgive his friend his transgression if he gave in to the temptation.

 

As if sensing his brothers’ anguish, d’Artagnan inserted himself into the conversation, his voice thin with pain, but clear, “Don’t tell him anything, Athos.” It was the first time the two had spoken since their capture. The young man was facing the wrong direction, assuming that his mentor was close to the Spaniard, but he had Athos’ full attention nonetheless. “There is too much at risk here, and you cannot trade any advantage our brothers may have in exchange for our lives. Promise me, Athos – no matter what.”

 

d’Artagnan had an expectant look on his face as he waited for his friend’s response. Athos had to tear his gaze away from the young man’s, unable to bear the beseeching look that held a complete lack of blame and spoke of nothing other than utter faith. His turned his focus to Aramis instead, the marksman once more silenced with the pistol pointing at his head, and this time it was Athos who begged wordlessly for forgiveness with his eyes.

 

The former comte was no stranger to duty, the concept having been bred into him from the time he could walk. As he grew into a young man, he began to realize that there was always a price to be paid for doing one’s duty. As a child, it had been his inability to run around and play like the other children at La Fere, his father explaining that it would be unseemly for the future comte to engage in such activities.

 

Later, as a youth, he’d longed to for the physical challenges of swordplay or horseback riding, but his time outdoors had been limited by tutors and unending lessons that had to be mastered. As a man, only a few years into his role as the new comte, he’d been smitten by the beautiful Anne, and had thought his life complete. But once more duty had exacted a devastating cost, and he’d hung his wife within hours of finding Thomas dead at her hands.

 

Now, duty was seeking a hauntingly familiar sacrifice, but this time it asked for the life of not one but two of his brothers, and Athos nearly choked at the amount of injustice that marked his existence. Refocusing blurry eyes on the marksman he saw the forgiveness he sought, Aramis infusing his expression with every bit of affection and trust that he held for his friend. The look gave him the strength to return his gaze to the Gascon’s face, the young man still waiting for a promise that Athos wasn’t certain he was strong enough to give. But d’Artagnan’s expression mirrored Aramis’, and Athos knew he could not disappoint his protégé, and dishonor so many others’ sacrifices by aiding their enemy.

 

Breathing slowly and deeply, he hardened his resolve before answering, “I promise.” The words were some of the hardest he’d ever uttered, but he could see the relief painted on both his friends’ faces and knew he’d done the right thing. Peguero’s posture was already shifting, losing the relaxed, devil-may-care appearance from before and morphing into something more dangerous. As Athos watched the transformation, he couldn’t help but be reminded of a snake preparing to strike. From the subtle straightening of Aramis’ back, it was clear the marksman had noticed it too. Only d’Artagnan remained unaffected, unaware of the subtle physical cues that heralded a change in their fortunes.

 

The Spaniard rose stiffly from his seat, some of the earlier fluidity of movement lacking, having been replaced by the firmness of taut muscles. His tone echoed the tension in his frame, and the hatred he held for them shone in his eyes. “You believe your morals will save you?’ he said with contempt, beginning to pace slowly along the length of the table. “You think that your loyalty to one another will buoy you and maintain you while you bleed? You feel you are brave enough to withstand the cries of your brothers, begging me to end their lives when they cannot endure anymore?”

 

Peguero came to a halt in front of Athos as he bent closer and hissed, “You are not that strong.” The Spaniard was now leaning over the Musketeer, hands resting on top of Athos’ arms and pinning them to the armrests. “I will gut your men, and their blood will soak into the dirt of the courtyard until it turns to mud. But first, I will remove the skin from their bones, make them beg for mercy until they cannot stand to hear the sound of your name, because it will be your fault that they suffer. You think your men will love you for what you do, but I promise they will hate you with their dying breaths.”

 

Abruptly, the Capitan stood, tugging at the bottom of his doublet which had risen upwards. Affixing a genial smile to his face, he motioned towards the guards, the men moving forward immediately to hear their orders. “I believe some time apart may be in order. Take that one outside,” he motioned to d’Artagnan, “and get him ready for me. The other two can be secured in one of the cells, but make sure they’re in one that faces the courtyard.” Glancing in Athos’ direction, he finished, “I wouldn’t want them to miss any of what is to come next.”

 

Turning on his heel, he exited the double doors, Athos and Aramis trading worried looks as they were bustled away, while d’Artagnan and his guards moved in the opposite direction. 

* * *

Porthos had tried to insist that he go and visit the men, but LaRue had matched the wounded man’s stubbornness and steadfastly refused to allow it, stating unequivocally that it could wait until morning. The newly promoted Captain had glared at the Musketeer, but the man would not be moved. Porthos grudgingly admitted that LaRue was right and he needed food and rest, in that order, if he was to be any good to his friends in the coming days.

 

While they’d eaten, the Musketeer had painted a picture of a regiment that had taken losses, but they were comparatively low due to the men’s skills. Still, Porthos knew that even one man dead was too many, and although his promotion would be temporary – Athos _would_ be rescued – he felt each death keenly. He thought he would have a hard time convincing LaRue of the need to mount a rescue attempt, but the other man beat him to it, stating that he would begin speaking privately with the men that night. In that moment, Porthos knew he’d underestimated his brother-in-arms, and he thanked the man sincerely for all he’d done – and all he was still doing to help. The Musketeer had given a modest shake of his head, downplaying his role, but Porthos had been able to see the slight flush of pride on the man’s face.

                          

He’d turned in early, LaRue pressing another of the physician’s draughts on him and reminding him of the need to regain his strength. Porthos hated the way the medicine made him feel, but he drank it without a word of complaint, his sole focus now on the rescue of his friends. Even though he’d felt lightheaded soon after he’d consumed the bitter brew, it had done its job and Porthos had slept soundly until morning.

 

LaRue arrived with breakfast soon after Porthos awoke, unobtrusively helping the recovering man into his armour afterwards and then staying at his side as he made his way back to the command tent. The meeting to discuss the day’s orders had been blessedly brief, Porthos uncomfortable in the others’ presence, and chafing to leave and speak with the rest of the regiment. Despite the fact that he would be addressing his brothers-in-arms, the men he’d fought and bled with since before the war had begun, he was nervous. Porthos had never had any interest in command, happy to allow others to bandy about strategy and politics. He was a soldier; put a weapon in his hands, point him at an enemy, and he was in his element.

 

He understood that for some officers, war was a game of numbers, with those having the superior forces emerging the victors. It stood to conclude, then, that the more soldiers that could be amassed against the opposing army, the better – hence the unfortunate opinion of some that those in the infantry were expendable.

 

Porthos knew that to be untrue, and more importantly, so did Athos, having argued against those who would needlessly put their regiment in harm’s way. It was this loyalty to his men that Porthos was counting on, hoping that it would be enough to convince the Musketeers to abandon their orders and attempt to breach the chateau instead.

 

Each regiment had its own area within their camp and Porthos now approached theirs, clenching and unclenching his hands, his palms uncomfortably sweaty. Everyone was there, awaiting their orders, milling about in small groups as they conversed and checked their weapons. As the first man noted Porthos’ approach, a wave seemed to pass through the Musketeers, hands stilling and conversations stopping, as each turned to face their new Captain. As though rehearsed, the regiment came to a standstill, the men collectively coming to attention for their commanding officer.

 

Porthos’ breathing hitched at the rare display of respect. It was more than he could have hoped for, and for a moment, words escaped him. He closed the distance between them before coming to a stop, looking across the sea of welcoming faces with a swell of gratitude and pride. Seconds passed before he realized that LaRue was once again standing at his right shoulder, his posture mirroring that of his brothers-in-arms as he waited for the Captain to speak.

 

Clearing his voice, Porthos began, “This war hasn’t been easy on us, and I think I speak for all of us when I say, the Spanish have proved to be tougher than we’d expected. The time we’ve spent here tryin’ to re-take the chateau proves that, and we’ve lost too many of our brothers in the effort.” He paused for a moment to draw a steadying breath as his mind automatically supplied d’Artagnan and Aramis’ names. The unwelcome reminder made him pause as he saw his own grief reflected on the others’ faces. How could he selfishly believe that his loss was any greater, any more painful than what any of his brothers-in-arms had endured?

 

As if sensing his thoughts, LaRue leaned closer, whispering lowly so that only Porthos could hear his words, “It’s alright; they’ll understand and won’t think any less of you. You must have faith.”

 

Faith, thought Porthos, something that seemed in short supply during these trying times. Yet, the advice was so familiar that he could not stop the slight quirking of his lips, knowing that if Aramis was at his side, his guidance would have echoed LaRue’s. Buoyed by the man’s encouragement, Porthos continued on. “All of you know that the Captain,” he paused again before correcting himself. “Athos has been the most recent victim of this siege, and he now sits behind the walls of that damnable chateau in the hands of those Spanish bastards.”

 

Steeling himself to share his distasteful news, he went on, “The others have decided this is a battle we cannot win, and the General has already ordered us to regroup with our main forces before the week is out. Today’s attack will be nothing more than a last rattling of our sabres before we turn tail and run. I’m asking you to fight with me instead, putting everything we’ve got into a direct attack on the chateau. I know I have no right to ask this, but if there’s any chance that Athos and the others are alive, I have to at least try and get them back.” He dropped his eyes to the ground for a moment before lifting them again to quietly add, “No one will think any less of you if you choose not to follow me.”

 

Porthos forced himself to maintain eye contact with the men in front of him, his gaze roaming across them as he fell silent and waited for their reaction. He knew that LaRue had spoken with some of them the previous night, but had no idea what exactly they’d discussed or the outcome of those conversations. He could only hope that the regiment’s need to get their Captain back was as strong as his own; without them, he would be a solitary man trying to fight against a storm which he could not conquer alone.

 

His hands begged to twitch with nervous energy, even as his wounded back protested the rigid fashion in which he held himself, determined not to let any of his discomfort or weakness show. The shift in the men was subtle, but one by one, they inched closer, not quite stepping forward since there wasn’t enough room for that, but clearly communicating their intentions regardless. As the throng once more settled, a Musketeer near the front broke out in a feral grin as he looked back at the men and then faced forward once more. “We’re all with you, Captain.”

 

Porthos couldn’t help himself as his face split into a matching expression, his hand settling meaningfully on the sword at his side. “Then let’s go show them why it was a mistake to take our Captain.”


	15. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two sat there in silence, both counting the strikes and praying that each would be the last one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great reactions to the last chapter, and for setting me straight that d'Artagnan being separated from the others constitutes a cliffhanger. (grins) Don't think there's any sudden drops ahead in this one, but hey, what do I know. Enjoy!

Aramis paced from one end of the space to the other. Athos was seated on the ground, his eyes closed and his head tipped back against the wall, his left arm lying across his belly. Despite his outwardly composed appearance, he was awake and fully aware. By the time they’d been deposited in their new prison, he’d been having a difficult time hiding his pain, the agony in his shoulder intensifying throughout the morning until he felt shaky and ill.

 

The queasiness in his stomach had only increased when the knife had been plunged into d’Artagnan’s shoulder, the blade following the path cut earlier by Peguero’s lead ball. He doubted that Aramis had known exactly what had happened from his position at the Gascon’s side, but Athos had unfortunately had an unobstructed view as the steel had been plunged in, twisted and then viciously withdrawn.

 

The look of suffering on d’Artagnan’s face had almost broken Athos’ resolve, but not nearly as much as when the young man had asked him to promise that he wouldn’t divulge any military secrets to their captor. He’d expected some form of retribution from Peguero in response to their defiance, but the words the man had spat at him had almost caused him to reconsider his decision. It was only the reminder that it would be their brothers-in-arms who would suffer, Porthos among them, which kept his lips sealed. Now he sat still, willing his injured and stressed body to relax, and pushing back the pain that encompassed his left side, and made him ache from his fingertips to his throbbing skull.

 

Aramis had wanted to look at his wound earlier, but Athos had resisted, certain that any well-meaning poking and prodding would have him on his knees, heaving until tears flowed from his eyes. The medic had given him such a hard stare that Athos was certain his friend was looking right into his soul, but the man had finally, unhappily acquiesced, and begun his restless pacing to and fro. The older man had watched him initially, noting the stiffness of his friend’s movements, sensing that there was something the marksman wasn’t telling him, but unable right then to summon the energy to pry. As long as there was no blood and no signs of imminent collapse, whatever was plaguing Aramis would have to wait.

 

He’d asked instead about the Gascon’s sight, confirming what he’d suspected from their earlier interactions. Aramis had provided him with a brief account of the events that had led to the young man’s blindness and their subsequent capture, leaving Athos unable to do anything more than nod in understanding of the medic’s actions. Afterwards, they’d both fallen silent, each man lost in his own thoughts.

 

“Why haven’t we heard anything?” Aramis stopped abruptly to pose the question, prompting Athos to open his eyes and slowly lift his head. The medic’s arms were crossed over his chest now, and his entire posture was rife with tension as they waited impatiently for something to happen. “Peguero made it sound like we’d be able to hear everything he was going to do to d’Artagnan.” Drawing a shaky breath, he asked, “What do you think it means?”

 

Athos could see the fear in Aramis’ eyes, but unlike the medic, he was more familiar with wartime tactics and was fairly certain that d’Artagnan was not yet any worse off than the last time they’d set eyes on him. Time could be used to one’s advantage, as the marksman’s disheveled form was proving, the man’s worry increasing exponentially with each minute that ticked by without a clue as to the Gascon’s fate. Clearing his throat, Athos tried to assuage his friend’s fears, “This is good news, Aramis. Peguero seeks to make us wonder and worry, knowing that each second that passes without information only feeds our fears.”

 

Aramis’ expression grew angry at the older man’s calm façade, and he countered, “But you don’t know that for a fact. How can you be so calm knowing that they could be doing anything to d’Artagnan?”

 

Athos understood that his friend’s anger was not directed at him, but at the helplessness of their situation. “Aramis, if you have ever had any faith in me at all, please believe me now. Peguero intends to make us suffer.” In his mind, he automatically corrected himself as he thought, “Make _me_ suffer.”

 

Out loud, Athos continued, “That we’ve not yet heard anything is a good thing.” Aramis stared at him for several long moments as Athos willed his friend to believe him. With a soft huff, the marksman broke eye contact and dropped his arms, the older man catching the momentary wince on the medic’s face. The ache in his shoulder was once more clamoring for attention, and it seemed they could both use a distraction. “Aramis, what pains you?”

 

The medic’s head jerked back towards his friend, and the words spilled from his mouth without conscious thought, “Nothing, I’m fine.”

 

Athos would have rolled his eyes except he feared the action would reawaken his earlier nausea, so he said instead, “You’ve been stiff this entire time, and your face showed pain just now when you let your arms fall to your sides.” He could see the medic was about reassert his claim that he was alright so he hardened his gaze as he reminded, “We’re at war, Aramis, and currently prisoners of the enemy. I need you to be honest with me.”

 

It took several moments before the marksman seemed to deflate, giving a weary nod as he replied, “Peguero decided that I should receive d’Artagnan’s punishment for disobeying him last night.” At the look of confusion on the older man’s face, he explained, “d’Artagnan is hurt whenever I refuse to follow their orders.”

 

“But he shot d’Artagnan,” Athos pointed out, still puzzled.

 

“Yes,” Aramis sighed. “Apparently, that was only to get me to change my mind about treating his wounded. There was still a punishment to be doled out because I stood up to him in the first place.”

 

Comprehension dawned and Athos’ voice was quieter as he asked, “What did he do?”

 

“Nothing much,” Aramis answered with a bitter expression on his face. “Just tied me up and let me stand outside in the rain for several hours.”

 

Athos gave him a look that indicated he knew that the man was holding something back. Without the older man saying anything more, the marksman went on, “The position I was forced into was _uncomfortable_ , and my thigh and shoulder muscles are sore as a result.” Aramis knew he was understating things, recalling how he’d been unable to walk for hours after being released, but Athos didn’t need to know that. The former comte watched him carefully before finally giving a short nod; there was more to the story, but for now, it would suffice.

 

Aramis was opening his mouth to speak again, but stopped when the sound of voices reached their ears. It was difficult to discern any of the words, and the marksman moved closer to the window, cursing the fact that it was set high above their heads so they couldn’t see out. Athos stayed where he was, not trusting himself to be able to move, and waited expectantly as the medic cocked his head to one side and listened.

 

“It’s Peguero,” Aramis said. Several seconds passed, before he added, “He’s ordering something be brought.” He shook his head as he clarified, “I couldn’t hear what.” More time passed before a new sound reached their ears, this one making them both jerk back in shock.

 

Aramis turned to face Athos, the two men wearing matching stunned expressions as they registered the crack of a whip, followed immediately by a harsh cry of pain. Before either could speak a word, the sounds were repeated. The marksman slowly fell against the wall at his back, sliding down the cold stones until he was sitting on the ground. The two sat there in silence, both counting the strikes and praying that each would be the last one. 

* * *

d’Artagnan’s shoulder burned mercilessly, his position exacerbating the throbbing in his left side. Despite the agony, he held himself up as best he could, not wanting to pull on the dual wounds any more than necessary. He could feel the warmth on his chest as fresh blood trickled from the newly re-opened hole, the path having been savagely widened when the Spanish soldier had twisted his blade before removing it.

                                             

He hadn’t meant to cry out, but the sensation had been so unexpected, the sudden agony of it causing him to nearly pass out. But he’d struggled to get a grip on the pain, unwilling to let Athos commit treason on his behalf by divulging anything of value to the Capitan. Athos’ promise had brought a strong sense of relief, and the Gascon knew that he would endure anything their Spanish captors threw at them to ensure his mentor would not be tempted to go back on his word.

 

It had been disappointing to realize that he was not being taken back with his friends, but instead ended up outside in what he could only assume was the courtyard. He’d been manhandled to stand with his back against a wooden post, a gag tied roughly around his mouth before his arms had been painfully bound behind his back. He’d stood there for quite some time, doing his best to slow his racing heart, the whole time feeling like he was suffocating as he was forced to breathe only through his nose.

 

When he’d heard sounds of movement around him, he’d straightened and braced himself, once again cursing his inability to see what was happening. Regardless, he was determined not to be caught unaware again. Soon, voices joined the sounds of people moving around, and he listened intently despite the fact that he knew only a few words of Spanish. When someone spoke almost directly next to his ear, he couldn’t stop himself from startling, the motion pulling painfully on his shoulder.

 

“Musketeer, you seem somewhat anxious,” the man said, and it took d’Artagnan’s moment to recognize the voice as Peguero’s. Unable to reply with the gag in his mouth, the Gascon hoped he was glaring in the right direction; a low chuckle of amusement had him thinking he’d most likely been unsuccessful. A hand came to rest on his right shoulder, and d’Artagnan jumped again at the unexpected contact. “Relax, mon ami. There is nothing more for you to do now but enjoy the show.”

 

Unknown to d’Artagnan, the Capitan raised a hand and waved it in front of the Musketeer’s face, grinning widely at the lack of response. “It is a terrible thing to lose one’s sight,” Peguero commented in mock sympathy. The Gascon merely bit down harder on the cloth in his mouth, wishing he had the ability to speak. “But, perhaps it is for the best. That way you can simply listen to your friend’s cries of pain without having to witness what he endures.” With a final harsh squeeze of his shoulder, the man’s hand disappeared, and d’Artagnan could make out the sound of retreating footsteps.

 

His breathing had quickened at the Spaniard’s remarks, and he wondered if one or both of his friends now stood with him, similarly trussed and at the enemy’s mercy. He was certain that if Aramis was there, the man would have found some way of letting him know. On the other hand, it was just as likely that he or Athos would also be gagged, removing their ability to let d’Artagnan know they were near.

 

When the sound finally came, the Gascon was initially relieved, but the feeling evaporated nearly as soon as it had registered to be swiftly replaced with horror. As the second strike landed, his mind identified the sound, the cracking of the whip followed almost immediately by a loud cry. d’Artagnan winced with each strike, praying that whichever friend was being flogged had the strength to endure. Unconsciously he began to count, trying to block out the weakening shouts of pain. “Please,” he begged silently, over and over again, wishing he could vocalize the plea and bring an end to his brother’s suffering.

 

When the quiet stretched after the tenth lash, d’Artagnan almost didn’t want to believe it had ended so soon, having expected Peguero to draw things out indeterminably. He found himself pulling against his bonds as he canted forward, searching for any clue that would indicate that his friends were alright. Sadly, the only sound that reached his ears was the harsh panting of someone in pain, and he closed his eyes tightly against the tears of frustration and anger that welled with the knowledge that one of his brothers had just been whipped.

                       

“Do you wish to release your Captain from his promise now?” d’Artagnan’s head snapped up from where it had fallen to his chest, the voice making his heart thump madly with adrenaline. He faced the direction where he thought Peguero was standing, his nose twitching with the stale scent of sweat that reached it. He stared at the man defiantly, still unable to verbalize his hatred of the man.

 

Without warning, fire flared in his wounded shoulder as the Spaniard’s hand closed over it, the man’s thumb digging mercilessly into the ragged hole. “Are you certain you won’t reconsider?” d’Artagnan’s nostrils flared as he struggled to take in enough air, panic blooming in his chest, but he shook his head at Peguero, refusing to betray his friends.

 

“As you wish,” the Capitan hissed, squeezing momentarily harder until the Gascon groaned lowly in pain. Releasing his punishing grip, the Spaniard walked away, leaving d’Artagnan leaning limply against the beam that held him. His legs were trembling and he was starting to feel lightheaded, and without conscious thought, he found himself sliding to the ground. He sat there, arms still tied behind him and his legs flung out in front of him, as he waited for the agony in his shoulder to subside and for rational thought to return.

* * *

Porthos cursed his weakness when it came to strategy, but LaRue had pointed out that there really wasn’t much need for tactical prowess; their objective was simple – break into the chateau by any means necessary. As such, the only decision to be made related to the point in the estate’s defenses that would be most vulnerable to their attack. LaRue had suggested a conversation with the comte to assist in this regard, but Porthos assured him that Athos had already pursued that avenue of information and had been unsuccessful. Instead, the new Captain recommended they speak with some of the comte’s staff, recognizing how often servants were the ones to discover illicit ways of moving in and out of their master’s homes.

 

With a grin, LaRue had agreed, insisting that he and some of the others take up the task while Porthos returned to his tent to rest. The wounded man had been resistant to the idea, acquiescing only once the Musketeer had pointed out the need for Porthos to be at his strongest once the battle began. Their day was an unusual one in that their attack was planned for later in the afternoon, allowing him and many others additional time to prepare for what was to come. With a reluctant nod, Porthos had agreed, but only after eliciting a promise from LaRue to be advised immediately if they discovered any information of value.

                                                        

Porthos had returned to his cot, surprising himself by falling almost immediately into a deep sleep. He was woken by LaRue’s arrival in his tent, the Musketeer grinning broadly as he announced, “You were right. The comte’s staff know the estate inside and out, and were willing to share their knowledge once they heard we might be able to put them back into their comfortable beds.”

 

Porthos had sat up at the Musketeer’s arrival and now waited expectantly, the familiar thrum of adrenaline already infusing his veins at the anticipated news. “Did you know there’s a tunnel beneath the lovely chateau?” LaRue remarked, his eyes twinkling as he launched into a full explanation of what he and the others had managed to discover.

 

A tunnel wasn’t overly surprising, and many nobleman had created similar forms of escape for themselves. That the current comte was unaware of its existence was unusual, but not unheard of, and Porthos sent up a silent prayer of thanks to whichever servant, past or present, had been able to ferret it out. As he listened to LaRue’s report, Porthos’ mind began to formulate a plan, automatically throwing his mind back to the layout of the battlefield, and recalling the position of the chateau in relation to everything else. By the time the Musketeer had finished speaking, Porthos was nodding his head, feeling more confident than a few hours earlier that they might be able to succeed.

 

“What time is it?” Porthos asked once the other man was done.

 

“Almost time for the midday meal,” LaRue responded.

 

With a thoughtful dip of his chin, the Captain replied, “Make sure we’re the first ones to eat, and then have everyone take an extra portion of powder; more for anyone who can carry it without being obvious.” LaRue nodded as he listened intently. “Are the cannon supplies still stored along with everything else?”

 

“Everything except the shot,” the Musketeer confirmed.

 

“Good, ask the men to slip some of the cord into their bags,” Porthos added, wanting to be prepared for every eventuality.

 

“Yes, Captain,” LaRue answered as he made to leave. Seeing Porthos preparing to rise, he turned back and placed a hand on the wounded man’s shoulder to keep him in place. “Why don’t you stay here,” he suggested. “I’ll collect enough powder for both of us, and then bring back something to eat.”

 

Porthos was already shaking his head, “No, the men should see me before we head into battle.”

 

LaRue pressed more firmly to keep the wounded man in his seat, “No, Porthos, the men will understand. There’s not a man among us who doesn’t know how badly you were wounded, and no one will judge you for taking the last few minutes of respite available. When the time comes, we trust that you will be there to lead the charge. Until then, rest, and let us take care of things.”

 

Porthos was unaccustomed to being treated like an invalid, but was smart enough to know that his body was not yet up to what he was about to demand of it. With a reluctant nod, he agreed, LaRue returning the gesture before he left. As Porthos watched the man’s retreating form, he hoped the Musketeer’s trust in him would not prove to be misplaced.


	16. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His eyes landed on the shredded remains of a man’s back, and he looked away as soon as the grim sight registered, guilt washing over him in waves at what his decision had wrought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great comments on the last chapter. With this one, I'm just gonna say "warning, cliff ahead" and run away. Enjoy!

Peguero walked with a smile of satisfaction on his face, sipping from the glass of wine he held in one hand as he made his leisurely way through the halls of the grand chateau. He could not help but feel a great sense of accomplishment at all he’d achieved so far, his capture of the estate sure to distinguish him amongst his peers, and earn him a promotion once word of his success reached his commanders’ ears.

 

His morning had gone exactly as he’d envisioned. Although there had been a small part of him that had hoped the Musketeer officer would give up his secrets, the more rational part of his brain knew that it was unlikely, the French soldiers hardened and bound by loyalty to their brothers-in-arms. As a result, he’d been able to indulge his enjoyment of delivering pain; first the physical agony of having the younger one stabbed, and then the mental anguish of separating the three and letting them wonder at what was happening to those absent.

 

The whipping that he’d just concluded had been satisfying as well. The soldier he’d flogged had tried to desert and an example had needed to be made; Peguero had savoured each delightful cry of pain he’d pulled from the man’s throat. He’d expected the deserter to be vocal – counted on it, actually – and now made his way to the cell underneath the chateau to see if the display had loosened the Musketeers’ tongues. Even better had been the unexpected benefit of tormenting the younger man, who’d believed that one or both of his friends had suffered beneath the Spaniard’s skillfully-handled whip.

 

Handing his empty glass to one of his men, the Capitan strolled through the dim hallway that led to his captives’ prison, nodding approvingly when another under his command motioned to one of the doors to his right. The cell was closest to the courtyard he’d just departed, and would have given its occupants the ability to clearly make out every strike of the braided leather, and every anguished scream that resulted. With these thoughts at the forefront of his mind, Peguero waited until the door in front of him was opened and then entered with a self-satisfied smile on his face.

 

The medic was already standing and facing him, his back towards his commanding officer, and his body positioned somewhat in front of the other man in a feeble attempt to try and protect him. The older Musketeer was awake and alert, but Peguero could see the lines of pain on his pale face, and knew that his wound and overall mistreatment were beginning to take their toll. The sight only deepened his smile. “Gentleman, I trust your ability to hear was not impaired by your surroundings?” he asked, one hand motioning towards the stone walls of their cell.

 

Aramis looked as though he wanted to respond, but it was Athos who answered, “As I’m sure you’re aware, this room is ideally situated for that not to be a concern.”

 

The Capitan gave a short nod of agreement as he rolled the shoulder of his right arm. “It’s been a while since I’ve flogged anyone. I find that my muscles are somewhat fatigued from the effort.” He kept his gaze on the officer’s face, but caught the clenching of Aramis’ jaw from the corner of his eye. When neither man answered, he continued, “Of course, the results are well worth it; don’t you agree?”

 

This time, the medic took a step forward, his motion only halting at a lowly spoken “Aramis” from the older man. The marksman threw a quick look over his shoulder, and Athos gave a tiny shake of his head, further reinforcing his order not to react. Aramis didn’t seem pleased but obeyed nonetheless, taking a step back to retake his previous position.

 

“How shall we proceed, gentlemen?” Peguero asked. “Is there to be more of the same or have you decided to cooperate?”

 

Athos’ face remained a façade of calm as he replied, “I believe that will be up to you, Capitan. As you’ve already reminded us, we have no control over what happens in this situation.”

 

The Spaniard held the French officer’s gaze for several moments, seeking any signs that the man was ready to yield, but found nothing but steely determination. While it would have been useful to have the Musketeer’s information, it was by no means necessary, and Peguero tormented the men now more for sport, enjoying the challenge of trying to break them. He showed no indication of this to his captives, however, needing them to believe that he was serious in his desire to extract some form of intelligence. If they knew the truth of things, Peguero was certain the game would be lost.

 

He turned his attention instead on the medic. “Have you ever treated a man after he’s been flogged?” he asked conversationally. “If it’s not done hard enough, there are only angry red welts and bruising. That is why technique is so important.” The Spaniard was now flicking his wrist as if demonstrating how the added motion would cause the leather whip to cut through one’s skin. “I admit that I have perfected it over the years, and can now draw blood with nearly every strike. I’ve been told that the sensation is similar to having one’s skin virtually sliced from one’s bones.”

 

Aramis’ face was flushed with anger, and his hands were curled into tight fists. Unfortunately, Peguero was correct in his assumption that he’d treated this particular injury in the past, and he recalled with vivid clarity the damage that could be caused to a man’s back with a forcefully wielded length of leather. Worse yet was the fact that the whipping was not the foulest part of the punishment, with men often succumbing to shock or infection afterwards, if not cared for immediately. Given the fact that d’Artagnan had not been returned, it was safe to assume that the young man was still hopelessly strung up outside, his blood staining the dirt as his life literally poured out of him.

 

Aramis could not stop himself this time, and even Athos sharply barking his name didn’t make him abort his attack. Within a heartbeat he’d closed the distance to Peguero, his hands reaching for the Spaniard’s neck. Before they could clamp closed around the Capitan’s airway, Aramis found himself on his knees, a blow to his midsection stealing the breath from his chest. Before he could draw air, he was being pummeled from above, two guards striking him with something hard and unyielding. Within moments, he was lying on the ground, his hands covering his head in a vain attempt to protect himself from major injury.

                            

Athos could only watch helplessly as his friend was beaten, a soldier moving immediately to restrain him while his other comrades attacked. The older man was sickened by the sound of wood on bone as the guards brought the butts of their pistols down on Aramis’ back and sides, over and over again. “Enough!” Peguero roared, ensuring that his voice would cut through the bloodlust of his men. With a last kick to the medic’s side, the soldiers withdrew, both men breathing heavily from their exertions. The Capitan smoothed down the front of his doublet as he looked to the Musketeer officer. “Shall I bother asking again?”

 

Ripping his eyes from his friend’s unmoving form, Athos glared at their captor and shook his head. With a deep sigh, the Spaniard replied, “Very well.” Motioning to the others, he spoke several words of Spanish and then departed. Thinking they were about to be left alone, and wanting to check on Aramis, Athos was surprised to find himself hauled to his feet and dragged out of the cell. A glance thrown over his shoulder confirmed that the same thing was happening to the marksman, although the man’s head hung low between his shoulders, and his booted feet dragged along the ground.

 

Athos did his best to carry his own weight, but stumbled frequently as he was bustled across the uneven ground. Before he knew it, they were outside, and he found himself blinking against the brightness of the afternoon sun. As soon as he’d adjusted, his eyes landed on the shredded remains of a man’s back, and he looked away as soon as the grim sight registered, guilt washing over him in waves at what his decision had wrought.

 

Logic told him that he’d made the only choice possible; after all, there would always be casualties in war, but his heart begged him to ease d’Artagnan’s suffering. From the brief glance he’d managed, the Gascon was still strung up by his arms, his wrists cruelly tied to an iron loop high above his head, which kept his front close to the wooden beam that he now sagged against. The waist of his breeches was stained with red, and Athos knew the young man had bled heavily.

 

Forcing himself to take a proper look, he noted the man’s head propped against the post, his brown hair brushing the top of his pale shoulders. Athos frowned as he blinked, needing to be certain of what he eyes were showing him. A second, closer look confirmed that the man who’d been whipped wasn’t d’Artagnan. His eyes roved around the courtyard, searching for any sign of the Gascon’s presence. When he spotted the young man, his knees nearly buckled in relief. d’Artagnan looked far from well, the front of his shirt damp with blood, and his head hanging toward his chest, but it certainly didn’t look like any additional damage had been inflicted upon him.

 

He was so focused on his examination of his protégé that he almost missed his own arrival at yet another upright post, which he was now being backed up against, his arms pulled behind him and tightly tied. He grunted as the action painfully stretched the torn skin and muscle of his shoulder, wincing as he imagined Aramis’ fine stitches being torn. He was approximately fifteen feet away from d’Artagnan’s position, while the marksman was being similarly bound the same distance away, but to his left. As he watched, Aramis’ insensate form was settled on the ground, his arms tied and then a gag placed around his mouth. Athos cringed in sympathy at the latter, added discomfort.

 

A shadow fell across him, and he turned his gaze away from the marksman to find Peguero standing in front of him. “I’ll leave you here for a while so you can contemplate your situation. Perhaps I’ll return after dinner to hear your thoughts.” Offering a condescending smile, the Capitan left them alone, their only company the poor man who’d been whipped, and a couple of guards who stood under the overhang of a nearby building.

 

A glance towards both of his friends showed them to be unconscious so Athos tugged carefully at his bonds, surprised to find enough slack to allow him to slide to the ground. He did so gratefully, closing his eyes against the sun as he settled down to wait for his companions to wake. 

* * *

Porthos felt the familiar pre-battle excitement coursing through him, but recognized that this time was different. This time, the others were looking to him for leadership, and lead them he would – the only question was whether he was leading them to success or to their doom.

 

Even without their quickly cobbled together plan, the fact that they would be leaving the others on the battlefield in pursuit of their own objective would be enough to have them all shot for desertion - if they lived long enough to be charged. Their only hope was in successfully gaining entrance to the chateau, thus not only freeing their men, but also retaking the estate, and placing it back into French hands. It was a daunting goal that only grew more so the longer Porthos considered it.

 

The cannon were in full force again, and he knew it would only be a matter of minutes before they were expected to attack. Across the battlefield, he could see the Spanish forces amassing, ready to meet the French military head on. He drew a steadying breath as he shifted the grip on his sword, having forsaken the musket altogether since it was too heavy for his weakened body to carry. Next to him, LaRue had taken up his familiar position, and Porthos couldn’t help but be grateful for the man’s perseverance and loyalty in staying by his side.

 

The flag announcing the start of their attack lifted, and Porthos took only a moment to take in the familiar colors which never failed to inspire a swell of pride. This time, it was not France for which he fought; this time, he fought for something far more important – brotherhood. With a hearty bellow, he raised his sword arm and plunged forward, resolutely ignoring the immediate spike of pain in his back. The Musketeers waded into the fray after him, the regiment moving as one as they hacked and slashed at everyone in their way as they slowly but surely manoeuvered away from the midst of the battle and closer to their target.

 

“Veer right here,” LaRue called, and Porthos automatically adjusted his direction, finding himself suddenly following instead of leading. There were fewer soldiers blocking their way now as they drew closer to the formidable stone walls of the chateau, which had already proven to be too much for their cannon to penetrate.

 

Porthos was surprised to find his way consistently clear until he noticed that each time an enemy combatant approached, one of the regiment would be there to step in the attacker’s path. As a result, the Captain hadn’t yet had to lift his sword to defend himself. Porthos’ initial instinct was to be angry with the men, but after a moment’s thought, he recognized the selflessness of the act and made a note instead to thank the others for ensuring he made it inside the estate’s walls.

 

More Musketeers were coming forward, and Porthos was beginning to drop back, his body flagging despite his will to continue on. He wasn’t left behind for long, however, as LaRue grasped his arm and pulled him forward, the injured man grunting for a moment with the forced burst of speed. Despite the added jarring of his wound, he gritted his teeth and allowed himself to be dragged along, determined not to put another of his brothers in jeopardy.

 

“Here, slow down,” LaRue was speaking again, and Porthos brought his head up though he had no memory of allowing it to drop, his feet slowing in tandem for several steps before coming to a complete stop. He blinked as he took in their surroundings, surprised to find himself standing before a rocky outcrop. “This way,” LaRue guided him forward to slip between the stone and into a gap that was barely noticeable unless one knew of its existence.

 

The light was quickly swallowed by the darkness inside, and Porthos was thankful to find those ahead of them holding already lit torches to show the way. Their path sloped swiftly downwards as the tunnel moved further underground, the passage narrowing as they went until LaRue was forced to release his hold and allow Porthos to walk unaided. The wounded man continued on with one hand on the damp rocks at his side, needing the support as his energy waned. As he stumbled, he heard LaRue’s concerned voice behind him, “Porthos, are you alright?”

 

“’m fine,” he replied automatically, even as his arm shifted to wrap around his middle as if to squeeze away the pain. Porthos knew he had no business being out there today, and Aramis would never have allowed it, had he been around. But that was the problem – Aramis had not been there, and neither had d’Artagnan or Athos, the three of them held captive by their enemy. Once they were free, Porthos would gladly submit to whatever Aramis ordered, but until then, he would find a way to keep his failing body upright and moving.

 

"We're here,” a voice from behind him said, Porthos noting that his attention had wandered yet again, and he cursed at his body’s weakness, which could yet get one of them killed. LaRue was correct and they’d arrived at the end of the tunnel, the area around them having opened up somewhat to allow the other man to move closer and stand at his side.

 

There were three Musketeers ahead of them, looking to their Captain for approval, and Porthos belatedly gave a short nod as he realized they were waiting for his permission to begin laying the charges that would get them through the barred door that stood in their way. He assumed that the men had already tried opening it and found it locked, and from the solid appearance of the wooden slats, they wouldn’t be getting past it in any other way.

 

In what seemed like moments later, he was being ushered further back down the tunnel, and Porthos realized that time had somehow skipped ahead as his overtaxed body reminded him that he should still be resting in bed. Giving his head a minor shake, he refocused his attention, watching carefully as one of the met lit the fuse and then hurried back to their location.

 

Porthos couldn’t help but count the seconds as he listened to the tell-tale hiss of the cord igniting, moving ever closer to the gunpowder that lay at its end. He knew the explosion would be loud no matter what, and they’d have to move out as soon as the obstacle ahead of them had been removed. Another second passed and then the fuse was gone, and Porthos pushed closer to the stone and earthen walls that surrounded them, one hand clamping over his head to protect his face.

 

The sound was deafening and seemed to suck the air from the space around them. He could feel the reverberations of it pulsing like a wave through his body, and couldn’t help the grunt that escaped, which no one would have heard in the din. Moments later, as the sound began to recede, another loud rumbling took its place. He had only a moment to absorb the words being shouted by one of the others before the world seemed to collapse around them, dirt and rocks tumbling onto their heads. “Cave in,” Porthos vaguely thought to himself before conscious thought abandoned him and he gave in to the dark.


	17. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a groan that was equal parts pain and determination, he pushed away from his support and began limping after d’Artagnan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the creative words used to describe our bad guy, as well as the very entertaining ideas about his demise. Not going to even comment on the terrain ahead, since I've already proven I'm not that great at spotting cliffs ahead. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Also, I'm expecting to be travelling tomorrow and likely won't have access to an internet connection, so next chapter will be up on Sunday.

It was the ache in his shoulder that brought him back to himself; he opened his eyes and blinked several times before remembering that it wouldn’t help. The world around him remained stubbornly dark and he let his head thud against something hard behind him in an effort to relieve the dull ache in his neck muscles. The gag in his mouth was still there, and its presence brought back the memories of what had transpired earlier. If it wasn’t for the fact that he had no idea of who was around him, he would have moaned loudly as the recollection of being stabbed intensified the pain.

 

“d’Artagnan,” a voice called to him, seeking his attention. “d’Artagnan”, his name was repeated and he instinctively turned his head towards it.

 

Some of the tension in Athos’ chest eased as the Gascon turned to face him, although he could see that the young man’s eyes were focused at some point off in the distance instead of on the older man’s face. Glancing towards their guards and confirming that the men were disinterested in his actions, he spoke again. “It’s good to see you awake.” He could see the young man’s brow furrow and then smooth as he recognized his mentor’s voice. d’Artagnan tipped his chin downwards towards his collarbone, attempting to dislodge the material that covered his mouth, but it was too firmly tied in place.

 

Concerned that the Gascon was unnecessarily tiring himself, Athos said, “Leave it for now, d’Artagnan. Are you alright?” Despite the young man’s propensity to play down his injuries, he had to ask the question, hoping that if d’Artagnan’s condition was truly dire, he would be honest enough to say so. The young man tipped his head momentarily to one side as if considering, and then nodded. Even though the young man’s appearance belied any semblance of good health, Athos could not help but quirk his lips mildly in response.

 

d’Artagnan’s expression turned questioning, and the older man had a good idea of what his protégé would ask if he were able. “Aramis and I are both fine,” he said, his eyes dancing over to check on the marksman’s condition and finding it unchanged. The look on the Gascon’s face hardened and Athos nearly sighed in frustration as he went on, “Really, d’Artagnan.” Then he recalled his first look at the man who’d been flogged, and realized with a start that the young man believed it had been one of them. “The Capitan whipped one of his own men – likely a deserter. We were only brought outside a short time ago.”

 

The words seemed to be what the Gascon needed to hear, and Athos could see some of the tension in his wiry frame bleed away. He was about to say more when a groan from his other side caught his attention. Looking over, he saw Aramis struggling to lift his head, the man obviously disoriented. When he’d managed it, he pried his eyes open before closing them once more as he adjusted to the variety of aches Peguero’s men had left him with. Remembering the medic’s earlier actions, he took a moment to reassure d’Artagnan, “Aramis is out here but he’s been gagged, the same as you.”

 

Turning back to face the medic, he was pleased to see that his friend had managed to straighten somewhat, and had taken in both his and the Gascon’s presence. Aramis motioned towards the young man questioningly, and Athos briefly considered that each was as bad as the other. “He’s alright, Aramis. It wasn’t him who got flogged.” Motioning his head meaningfully toward the poor soldier who’d been whipped, the older man wondered at the fact that Peguero allowed the man’s suffering to continue, not even having the consideration to cut the man down and let him be tended by his comrades.

 

Returning his gaze to the marksman, he saw the same relief he’d felt earlier reflected in his friend’s eyes. Seeing more unspoken questions in the medic’s eyes, Athos did his best to provide the information the man would likely want to hear, “We’ve been out here for nearly an hour.” He paused and was certain that Aramis could see the unspoken, _“I was worried about you”_ in his face. “Peguero promises to return after dinner.” The marksman’s face blanched and Athos knew his fear was not for himself, but for his two friends.

 

There was nothing more to be said so Athos called instead to their guards, hoping to alleviate some of his brothers’ discomfort, “Hey, you there.” The soldiers looked up from their conversation and Athos realized he didn’t even know if the men could understand French. “Is it strictly necessary to keep my men gagged?”

 

Athos waited several moments to see if they’d understood, and eventually one of the men walked forward to reply in broken French, “Capitan Peguero say to keep them tied.”

 

“Tied is one thing, but gagged is another. Surely it would be alright to remove those,” he pleaded, praying that the man would be willing to agree.

 

The man called to his partner and conversed in Spanish, before finally stepping forward to remove the gags. As Athos watched his friends work their sore jaw muscles, the guard ordered, “You keep quiet or the gags go back.” The older man gave a nod and a low murmur of thanks.

 

Interpreting the guard’s warning to mean speaking softly rather than not speaking at all, Aramis took full advantage of his ability to talk again and called out to the Gascon, “d’Artagnan, did they do anything else to you after we were separated?”

 

The young man’s face turned towards his friend, a soft smile lightening his features as he replied, “No, Aramis, I’m not any worse for wear than I was before.”

 

“Good,” the medic said under his breath, “that’s very good.” Switching his attention to Athos, he asked, “And you?”

 

Athos was already shaking his head, “No, Aramis, I am fine. It is you who took the brunt of Peguero’s anger earlier.”

 

The marksman threw his friend a dirty look as he noted the panicked expression on d’Artagnan’s face, “Relax, both of you, it was only a few blows to the back. I’ll have bruises, but nothing worse.” At Athos’ incredulous look, Aramis gave a short shake of his head, indicating his reluctance to say more in front of their young friend. The older man gave a hesitant dip of his chin in return.

 

Clearing his dry throat and wishing for a drink of water, d'Artagnan questioned, "Any idea of what happens next?”

 

Athos and Aramis traded glances, neither man having any way out of their current predicament. Trying to lighten the mood regardless, the marksman was the one to reply, “Perhaps the chateau will be overrun by our soldiers and we’ll all be rescued?” As if to punctuate his words, the noise of cannon fire sounded just then.

 

“They started up again a short while ago,” Athos commented, his eyes drawn over the top of the high walls where he could see smoke from the large weapons floating lazily through the air.

 

The men fell silent at that, each of them imagining what it would be like for the men who were currently on the battlefield. Their time battling around the chateau had not been overly favorable, and each of them knew that without additional reinforcements, the Spanish would be the likely victors, holding on to their conquest in the form of the grand estate. Another loud noise reached their ears, but this one seemed much closer. Aramis and Athos exchanged a round of silent communication, both acknowledging that the latest rumbling was far closer, perhaps even within the walls of the estate.

 

It seemed that others believed so as well, men beginning to flow from the buildings surrounding them to see what was happening. Athos raised a brow at the relatively small number of soldiers emptying into the courtyard, realizing a moment later that the majority of their forces would currently be engaged on the battlefield. All of a sudden, there appeared to be hope where previously there had been little, and the older man wondered if it was possible that the French had actually managed to breach the estate. He threw a meaningful look to Aramis and noted that the marksman’s thoughts seemed to mirror his own.

 

Only d’Artagnan sat with a tremulous expression, the added noise of booted feet running through the courtyard likely sounding like thunder to the young man. Athos would have liked to assuage the Gascon’s fear, but there was no way his voice could be heard above the din now that the Spanish had begun to yell orders and questions to one another as they attempted to organize. Moments later, a new sound emerged, and the older man’s gaze was drawn to Peguero. The Capitan stood just in front of the steps leading from the main house, a pistol held high in the air from where he’d just discharged it.

 

The shot had the desired effect and brought the confused activity around him to a halt. The Spaniard dispensed his orders in quick, clipped sentences, and the men around them coalesced into a new semblance of order, now moving with a purpose that had been absent before. While the soldiers scurried to do as they’d been told, Peguero strode forward directly toward d’Artagnan. One of their guards noted the man’s approach and was already striding to meet him. Athos and Aramis looked on helplessly as the Capitan grasped the Gascon’s face and squeezed.

 

The young man startled badly at the unexpected and painful contact, jerking his head back in an attempt to get free, but Peguero merely tightened his hold. He was leaning forward now, forcing the young man’s neck to twist painfully and speaking into his ear, but neither of the Musketeers could make out what was being said. Moments later, the Spaniard’s intentions became clear as the guard sawed through the rope binding d’Artagnan, and the two men roughly hauled the Gascon to his feet.

 

“No,” Athos growled under his breath, his hands twisting in the ropes around his wrists, desperate to get free and stop the Capitan.

 

Several feet away, Aramis was mimicking his actions, but unlike the older man, he’d been working at this bindings since he’d woken. It had been a painful process, each tug awakening the multitude of bruises he knew painted his skin beneath his clothes. To make matters worse, he was certain that one of his ribs was at the very least cracked, and each movement jarred it painfully. Although he couldn’t see his wrists, he could feel the slick of warm blood, which he’d encouraged in order to further loosen the course material that held him. He knew that it would be up to him to save the others, Athos’ wound making him too weak to release himself, and d’Artagnan having no idea of what was transpiring.

 

When the marksman had seen the Spaniard set his eyes on the Gascon, he’d known without a doubt that the man meant to do him more harm. That their captor would pick the weakest of them disgusted Aramis, and he’d redoubled his efforts free himself. The movement of his arms were now frantic, tugging and yarding against the rope that held him, his entire upper body twisting with the motions. He watched as d’Artagnan was being pulled to his feet, the young man swaying alarmingly as he tried to stay upright. Aramis could well imagine how continued blood loss along with the inability to see was making d’Artagnan feel dizzy and nauseous, contributing to his difficulties remaining standing.

 

Peguero cared little for his captive’s infirmity and forced the Gascon forward, holding him by the arm on one side, while the guard held the other. d’Artagnan cried out in pain at the manhandling that was putting additional strain on his hurt shoulder. In that instant, it didn’t matter what the Capitan had planned; Aramis saw red with the need to help his friend, the man whom he’d thought he’d saved by agreeing to the Spaniard’s offer. Now, he understood how wrong he’d been, bringing d’Artagnan to the Devil by having bargained for his life. A forceful yank had his left hand slipping free, and the marksman scrambled around the wooden post, picking at knotted fibres around his right wrist. Seconds later, he was free and stumbling to his feet, making his way towards the retreating Spaniard.

 

Athos was screaming his name, and Aramis was certain he’d never heard the note of panic that currently colored the older man’s words. He paused only momentarily, torn between releasing one friend or running after the other, but another sound of pain from the Gascon had him resuming his chase after the man. Athos’ howl of frustration and rage followed him, but he only had eyes for the trio ahead of him. As if sensing the marksman’s pursuit, Peguero sped up, d’Artagnan now almost hanging between his two captors.

 

The men disappeared into a building and Aramis quickened his pace, gritting his teeth as his body protested every footfall. His heart was thumping wildly with fear for his friend and he tuned out everything else around him, his focus solely on his prey. He scarcely slowed as he pushed open the door through which the others had entered, barely managing to fling himself sideways as the guard accompanying Peguero loosed his shot. Aramis was successful in ensuring the ball didn’t find its intended target, and rolled swiftly back to his feet over the complaints of his aching body.

 

A stolen glance showed the Capitan moving deeper inside the building, d’Artagnan’s arm over the Spaniard’s shoulder as he was dragged along at his captor’s side. The guard was now launching himself at Aramis with his sword raised, and the marksman swiftly looked around for anything with which to defend himself. The structure they’d entered was a barn, although the area they now occupied was large and open, and completely bereft of any type of livestock. A back wall held various grooming and riding implements and Aramis back-peddled quickly until he was able to reach out a hand and snag one.

 

Sparing a glance to see what he’d grabbed, he shook his head in disgust at the metal curry comb he now held. Moments later his was bringing his makeshift weapon up to deflect the tip of his opponent’s sword. He grimaced with his clumsy movements, his body not moving nearly as fluidly as it normally would. Although loathe to admit it, their captivity had been difficult and the last twenty-four hours had especially drained his reserves. He managed to deflect two more blows before catching the heel of his boot on the uneven ground. Although he managed to stay on his feet, the stumble cost him and he was a split-second too slow in knocking the oncoming blade away from its mark.

 

He grunted as the soldier’s sword bit deeply into the flesh of his thigh, the leg threatening to collapse almost immediately as nerve-endings came alight. Aramis had to do an awkward series of short side-steps in order to regain his balance and put some distance between himself and his attacker. The soldier was grinning, his confidence bolstered now that he’d drawn blood. He motioned to the marksman with his free hand, inviting him in closer as he said, “Come on, Musketeer, come to your death.”

 

The soldier had spoken in Spanish, and Aramis took advantage of the fact that no one realized he spoke the language to try and distract the other man. “It’s you who will be meeting your death today, not me you cowardly Spanish cur.” The man’s eyes widened in surprise, his sword arm dropping for a second. In that moment, Aramis lunged forward, slashing the teeth of the curry comb across the Spaniard’s face. The man reeled back in surprise at the gashes that had been cut across his temple and cheek, his hands coming up automatically to cradle the torn flesh. The marksman moved closer once more, grabbing his opponent’s head in both hands and driving it into a wooden support beam, once, twice, and then a third time for good measure.

 

When he released his hold, he was gratified to see the man slump bonelessly to the ground, Aramis teetering over him drunkenly as he wheezed with exertion. A fumbling hand reached out to grip the post next to him as he waited for the throbbing of his injured rib to subside, the ache of it pulsing in time with the hole in his leg. He wanted nothing more than to let his tired body rest, but Peguero had had precious minutes to get away. With a groan that was equal parts pain and determination, he pushed away from his support and began limping after d’Artagnan.

* * *

The air around them was thick with dust, and Porthos coughed long and harshly as it coated his mouth and throat. Someone was tapping irritatingly at his cheek and he tried to roll away from the sensation, becoming more aware as his head was firmly held in place. He tried to question what was happening, but only ended up coughing once more and this time he felt something nudging at his lips. Automatically, he opened his mouth and was rewarded with a taste of cool water. He greedily drank several swallows before the liquid stopped, prompting him to finally open his eyes.

 

His vision was bleary and he reached a hand up to swipe at his gritty eyes. When his sight sharpened, he was greeted with LaRue’s relieved face. “Thank God you’re alright, Captain,” the Musketeer said. Porthos noted that the other man was covered with a dusting of dirt that made his hair look darker, and more was smudged along his face, deepening the creases on his brow as it mixed with sweat.

 

Licking his lips, Porthos felt the dust that sat there, but his discomfort was overwhelmed by his need to know what was happening. Dimly recalling the explosion, he asked in a gravelly voice, “Did it work?”

 

LaRue's face split into a grin as he nodded, “Yes, it worked.” Glancing ruefully in the direction of the exit, he added, “We may have used just a touch too much powder, but luckily, no one’s the worse for wear.”

 

The comment eased something in Porthos’ chest as he lifted his right hand to pat the Musketeer’s arm, “Good. What’s happening now?”

 

The other man’s face grew serious as he reported, “We’re getting ready to send the majority of the men through. Fontan’s taken his men and is headed back, per your orders.”

 

Porthos gave a slight nod of his head, astounded that their plan was so far on track. “How long…” he trailed off, motioning vaguely in the direction of the barred door they’d encountered.

 

“It’s only been a minute or so,” LaRue assured him. “I think you were just stunned by the debris that was dislodged.”

 

“Help me up,” the injured man grunted, extending his hand so he could be hauled to his feet. The Musketeer obliged and Porthos clamped his jaw shut as his back protested loudly. He reached a hand down to unsheath his sword, forgetting that he’d been holding it earlier. With a confused expression, he looked up to find LaRue handing him the missing weapon. He gave a nod of thanks and began making his way forward, stepping carefully over some of the larger pieces of debris that littered the ground.

 

Others from the regiment had already scrambled through the open doorway, and more made their way around him and LaRue in their eagerness to finally exact their revenge on the soldiers who’d been so consistently beating them on the battleground. Drawing a deep breath, Porthos tightened his grip on his sword and stepped through, impatient to find Athos and the others while the regiment kept the Spanish at bay.


	18. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> d’Artagnan covered his head with his right arm and rocked, a low keening emanating from his chest as he tried to block out the frightening sounds that seemed to echo around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to go out on a limb and say this is a chapter that many of you have been waiting for, plus, I'm pretty sure there's no cliffs. Enjoy!

d’Artagnan stumbled again, the man supporting him swearing as he struggled to balance them both. Moving was a nightmare for the Gascon, unable to see where they were going, and weak from hours of bleeding. He’d hoped that Peguero would simply let him go once he discovered how difficult it would be to use him as a hostage, but the Spaniard had stubbornly persisted. While there had been two of them supporting d’Artagnan’s weight, movement had been somewhat bearable, but now that only the Capitan remained, the Gascon was certain that he’d be going to his knees at any moment.

 

Still, he channelled all of his determination into making his leaden feet move, Peguero’s threat still ringing in his ear. No matter what, d’Artagnan refused to be the reason for his friends’ death, and that is exactly what the Spaniard had promised would happen if the Musketeer didn’t accompany him, or made any move to escape. The seconds after he’d been released from his bonds had been terribly confusing, his head spinning as his body protested being upright, while all around him, he could discern the sounds of men running and shouting out to one another. In his head, all he could picture was chaos, but its appearance had been sudden, and he couldn’t help wondering what had prompted all the activity.

 

His foot caught once more on some unseen obstacle, and this time not even Peguero’s iron will could keep him standing. He could feel himself being ripped from the Spaniard’s grasp, and only just managed to put his right hand out to catch himself, feeling the impact of his fall jarring painfully throughout his shoulders and back. As he kneeled on the ground, bent forward and barely holding himself up with one hand, he could feel the last of his body’s strength fleeing. His head hung low as he fought for breath, each inhale seeming to take far too much energy.

 

“Get up,” Peguero roared at him, while at the same time reaching for his right arm and removing the only thing between him and the hard ground. “Come on,” the Spaniard ordered, but without his supporting arm to stave off his fall, d’Artagnan plummeted toward the ground instead. The Capitan could not stop the Musketeer’s descent and took a step back as the man’s arm was again pulled from his grasp. The Gascon couldn’t stifle a gasp as his wounded shoulder met the ground first, and he lay on his stomach, eyes closed, as he panted for air.

 

“We are leaving,” Peguero huffed, pushing a booted foot under d’Artagnan’s side to roll him onto his back. “Whether you help me,” he reached a hand down and yanked hard, pulling the Gascon to a seated position, “or not.” With his final words, the Spaniard ducked underneath d’Artagnan’s shoulder and rose, hauling the injured man to his feet.

 

The Musketeer swayed helplessly, unable to stave off the debilitating weakness or the dizziness that made it almost impossible for him to stay upright. d’Artagnan hung helplessly from the other man’s hold, his eyes closed as he was forced forward, his feet dragging in some semblance of movement. Part of him hated how reliant he was on the man at his side, while another part took satisfaction from the fact that he wasn’t making things any easier for Peguero.

 

They’d only taken a few steps before the Gascon felt himself once more torn from the Spaniard’s grasp, the sudden lack of support sending him careening heavily to the ground. This time it was his good shoulder that took the brunt of the impact, and he curled into himself as he breathed through the pain. It took several moments before he became aware enough to register the sounds of a struggle. With no ability to assess the new danger that had appeared, he rolled away from the direction of the noise, hoping he wasn’t inadvertently placing himself at greater risk.

 

He winced at the familiar sounds of flesh striking flesh, accompanied by the grunts and groans of exertion, and wished once more that he could see what was happening. The scuffle continued on for over a minute before coming to an abrupt end. Suddenly, the sounds of violence were replaced by those of harsh breathing, as the combatants endeavored to recover their strength. d’Artagnan’s head lifted sharply from where he lay partially on his side when he heard the familiar click that signalled a pistol being primed. Without thought, he unconsciously tensed, preparing to feel the bite of a bullet.

 

“I’m not a man prone to mistakes, but I admit I made an error in judgement with you,” Peguero stated, his words heavily laced with anger. “Fortunately, it’s a mistake that is within my power to rectify.” d’Artagnan pushed himself up a little higher, wishing he had the strength to be able to stand instead of meeting his fate on the ground. He lifted his chin defiantly as the Spaniard finished, “Good-bye, Musketeer.”

 

Time seemed to stretch as the Gascon waited for the shot that would end his life. He measured the seconds that passed by with the beating of his heart, his mouth dry as dust while sweat trickled from his temple to languidly trace the lines of his cheek and jawbone. Still there was nothing more forthcoming, and when d’Artagnan thought he could no longer stand the silence, a raucous new sound emerged.

 

He startled badly at the battle cry that reached his ears, the noise appearing almost in tandem with the discharge of a pistol and the thud of something heavy striking the ground. The additional strain of waiting for his life to end was too much, and d’Artagnan’s body began to tremble, his only focus on escaping the Hell he was in.

 

He began to scrabble backwards, his legs and right arm pulling him along as he scooted along the ground, still lacking the strength to stand on his own. The sound of something hard striking wood jolted him once more, and his movements became more frantic and less coordinated as he sought any way of removing himself from his current predicament. He continued on in that fashion until he hit something unmoving at his back, sliding sideways until he met another unyielding surface.

 

His brain recognized the area as some form of shelter and he proceeded to pull himself into the space as much as he could, wishing that he could make himself invisible, just as others were to his sightless eyes. With his legs drawn up and his face tucked into his knees, d’Artagnan covered his head with his right arm and rocked, a low keening emanating from his chest as he tried to block out the frightening sounds that seemed to echo around him.

* * *

The entrance they’d found into the chateau deposited them into a cellar. A short flight of stairs opened into a small building, which was obviously used to store dry goods. The door leading outside was already open, and as Porthos stepped out into the sunlight, he could see his men engaged with the Spanish soldiers. As he cast his eyes over the small opposing force, he sent up a silent prayer of thanks that his gamble had paid off – as he’d predicted, most of the Spanish were out on the battlefield, leaving the estate vulnerable. The few men that remained would easily be defeated by the Musketeers, and the battle was already nearing its conclusion.

 

One of the men was shouting to him, waving an arm in the air to get his attention. As Porthos caught the other man’s eye, the Musketeer pointed further into the courtyard where he could see someone restrained to a wooden post. As his eyes tracked upwards, he realized with a start that he was staring into the panicked face of one of his friends, and his feet began moving seemingly of their own volition. Within seconds, he was standing in front of Athos, a foolish grin that he was unaware of painted on his face.

 

“Athos,” he breathed out in relief.

 

The older man paused in his struggles to free himself to issue a command, “Hurry up and cut me loose.”

 

LaRue was already drawing his dagger and moving in behind his Captain to cut the ropes that held him, while Porthos stared uncomprehendingly at his friend. “What’s going on, Athos?” the larger man asked. From what he could see, the former comte hadn’t had an easy time of things, his hair wildly tangled and greasy, while his doublet was stained with something that had turned the leather around his shoulder an alarmingly dark shade.

 

Athos was free now and LaRue was helping him rise, the older man wincing in discomfort as he held his left arm close to his chest. As the Captain attempted to step forward, Porthos stepped into his path and placed a placating hand on his chest, blocking the older man’s progress. “Athos, what’s going on?”

 

With a look of annoyance, the officer replied, “Get out of my way, Porthos. Peguero has got d’Artagnan, and Aramis has gone after him armed with nothing more than his bare hands.”

 

The large man moved immediately out of Athos’ path, falling in beside him as they raggedly jogged in the direction the Spaniard had taken. “Who’s Peguero?” Porthos queried as they ran.

 

Athos’ scowl morphed from pained to angry as he replied, “The Spanish bastard responsible for all this.” The larger man ached to ask more, but it was taking all his willpower to keep his tired body moving, and a glance in Athos’ direction confirmed the older man was feeling much the same way.

 

“Give me a weapon,” the older man commanded, extending a hand as they slowed. Porthos pulled a pistol free from his belt without thought, placing it into his Captain’s grip as they approached a partially open doorway ahead. Despite Athos’ poor condition, there was no question that he would enter first, the larger man moving through at his friend’s heels and automatically checking the opposite side of the entrance.

 

The area they emerged into was quiet and to Porthos’ eye seemed empty, until he felt his friend tapping him on the upper arm to get his attention. Athos motioned towards a man lying motionless on the floor. Trading glances, Porthos moved forward and crouched carefully, confirming that the man was still alive but deeply unconscious, his face and nose covered in blood.

 

Giving a shake of his head, Porthos stood as he whispered, “He’ll be out for a bit yet.”

 

Athos gave a nod and indicated forward, and they resumed their careful examination of the barn as they moved deeper inwards. This time it was Porthos who raised a hand, signalling to slow down before raising a finger to his lips. They advanced carefully, each man intently aware of any indications that their approach had been discovered. As they drew nearer, a man’s voice reached their ears.

 

“I’m not a man prone to mistakes, but I admit I made an error in judgement with you.” The words were laced with hatred and made Athos shiver involuntarily as he recognized the Capitan’s voice. He mouthed Peguero’s name to Porthos, even as he quickened his stride, certain that his friends were ahead of them and in dire need of help.

 

“Fortunately, it’s a mistake that is within my power to rectify.” Peguero’s voice floated back to them and they could see the man just ahead. The scene playing out before them was both mesmerizing and horrifying, the Spaniard holding a pistol pointed at Aramis’ head. For once, luck was on their side, and the Capitan had his back to them. They continued closing the distance between them as the officer spoke again, “Good-bye, Musketeer.”

 

Once more, verbal communication was unnecessary as Porthos and Athos came to unspoken agreement about their course of action. Both stepped forward, needing to be closer, and when Athos planted his feet and raised his borrowed pistol, Porthos continued ahead, speeding his pace. The large man’s focus was solely on Aramis who was on his knees before Peguero. His chest was heaving, and Porthos could see blood trickling down the side of his friend’s face, but the medic’s demeanor was defiant, unwilling to give the Spaniard any measure of satisfaction.

 

Steeling himself, Porthos let out a mighty battle cry as he flung his body forward and into that of his friend, the two of them falling heavily to the ground, driving the breath from both of their bodies. At the same time, the large man vaguely registered the sound of a pistol’s discharge, and he dipped his head closer to the ground where he hunkered over Aramis. The silence laid heavily over them after the sound of the shot faded away, and he raised his head to check Peguero’s status, noting the man’s still-standing form. Knowing his shot was spent, Athos had done the only thing he could and had quickly stepped forward to swing the butt of the pistol at the Spaniard’s head.

 

The Capitan had dropped his own weapon when the Musketeer’s ball had struck his shoulder, making his fingers suddenly numb and unable to grip. It had taken him a moment to register the French officer’s presence, but when he had, he’d turned in time to duck the pistol being swung at his head, the weapon striking heavily against the wooden beam at his side. Knowing the odds were currently against him kept Peguero upright and strong, and as he rose, he drove his fist heavily into the stomach of the Musketeer attacking him. He was rewarded by the sound of air being expelled, and moments later, the officer was down on his knees, mimicking the medic’s earlier position.

 

Porthos rolled sideways and onto the ground to lay next to Aramis, even as his left hand scrabbled to pull the dagger at his back. Behind him, the marksman had regained enough of his senses to realize what was happening and his fingers reached the larger man’s blade first, sliding it smoothly free before releasing it to fly through the air toward Peguero.

 

The Spaniard grunted when the steel punctured his throat, his eyes dimming as blood poured from the wound to saturate the front of his shirt and doublet. He managed to stay standing for several seconds before falling, first to his knees and then to his side. Blood taking the place of air, Peguero gurgled as he choked, his limbs spasming limply before he fell blessedly still.

 

All eyes were glued to the Spaniard, the Musketeers certain that their nemesis was finally dead, but unable to break the spell that seemed to have befallen them with the man’s violent end. It was Porthos who broke it, his arm giving out beneath him to drop him fully to the ground on his back, Aramis allowing himself to follow. With a tired exhale, Porthos’ head lolled toward the marksman, and he found his friend staring back at him. Several long seconds passed before Aramis’ face split with a smile, the expression mirrored almost immediately by the larger man.

 

“It is good to see you, my friend,” Aramis breathed out. Porthos only nodded wearily in reply as they continued to lay there, neither man ready to attempt movement.

 

A few feet away, Athos was watching them, contemplating whether he had enough energy to stand, when his head swung to and fro, searching. When he was unable to find what he’d been looking for, he returned his gaze to Aramis, “Where’s d’Artagnan?”

 

The words took a moment to register. Aramis painfully shifted himself onto his elbows, his eyes scouring the room before landing on the older man, “He was right here earlier. I knocked him from Peguero’s grasp, but then he got the upper hand.”

 

A new sense of urgency imbued the men, and Athos dragged himself upright while Porthos helped the marksman up, the latter man grimacing as he motioned irritably at the hole in his leg. The larger man ducked under Aramis’ arm, glaring at him when the medic initially tried to refuse his aid, but Athos was already moving away from them and it was the only way they’d be able to keep up.

 

They didn’t have to venture far and came to a stop after only a few steps, spotting d’Artagnan curled into himself and rocking, a low keening noise coming from his throat. “What…” Athos started, stopping when the words caught in his throat. Clearing it, he tried again, “What did Peguero do to him?”

 

Aramis was frowning, but in confusion rather than worry. “As far as I know, Peguero didn’t touch him. It’s possible I hurt him when I jumped Peguero, but this…” he motioned with his free hand, perplexed at what had caused such a response.

 

They moved forward slowly, keeping their steps as soft as possible, while Athos called out to the young man, “d’Artagnan, it’s Athos. It’s alright now, you’re safe.” The Gascon’s motion continued as if he’d heard nothing.

 

“What’s wrong with him?” Porthos’ gravelly voice asked, and Aramis held up a hand in a gesture of silence.

 

Keeping his own voice low as he replied, the medic explained, “He’s had a hard time of things, and was blinded the day we were taken.” Porthos’ head snapped towards Aramis as he continued, “I imagine this must have been terrifying for him – hearing people fighting and not knowing if he was about to be shot.” The marksman gave his head a sad shake as he visually examined the young man before them. “We’ll need to be careful not to frighten him further.”

 

He received a pair of matching nods in reply, and the trio stepped forward, closing the remaining distance between them before sinking to their haunches, Aramis sitting instead with his wounded leg stretched out in front of him. Nodding to Athos, the medic indicated that the older man should try once more to get through to their friend. “d’Artagnan, it’s Athos. Aramis and Porthos are here as well.” The alarming rocking motion continued, and the older man threw Aramis a look of helplessness.

 

"Keep trying," the medic coaxed, his eyes glued to the young man.

 

Athos stared at the Gascon for a moment before repositioning himself, squeezing into the corner in which d’Artagnan was wedged. Tentatively, he reached around the young man, gently resting his arm on the trembling form’s shoulders. When the action went unnoticed, Athos shifted slightly closer, increasing the pressure of his hold as he leaned towards d’Artagnan’s ear, “You’re safe now, d’Artagnan. Please, come back to us.” For several seconds, it seemed that the young man would ignore his mentor’s plea and stay trapped in his own world. Then, gradually, the rocking motion slowed, until it had ceased altogether.

 

The Gascon shakily moved his arm and raised his head, revealing tear tracks that had stained both cheeks. “Athos?” he asked in an incredibly thin voice, the word barely audible, but sounding like music to his friends’ ears.

 

“Yes,” the older man replied, his voice cracking momentarily. “Yes, it’s me. Aramis and Porthos are here, too.”

 

At the comment, Porthos reached a hand out and laid it gently on the Gascon’s shin, squeezing it softly at the same time that Aramis laid a hand on the young man’s upper arm. “We’re all here, d’Artagnan,” Porthos reinforced, his voice low and soothing.

 

The Gascon was quiet, his head moving to where he thought each man’s face might be. His breaths were slowly speeding up again, and Aramis’ expression turned concerned once more as he asked, “d’Artagnan, what’s wrong.”

 

The young man shook his head, his chest still heaving until he finally choked out a few words, “Thought I’d never see you again.” The irony of his words were not lost on the three, but they chose the less literal interpretation, reflecting the fear d’Artagnan held that they had all been killed.

 

“We’re not that easy to kill,” Porthos responded gruffly, his voice rough with unshed tears. Aramis’ hand shifted to clasp the nape of the Gascon’s neck as d’Artagnan gave a shaky nod of understanding. Within moments, he was attempting to disentangle himself from his friends’ hands, and the men found their grips changing from assurance to restraint, all three moving closer at once.

 

Seconds later, d’Artagnan found himself enfolded in the others’ arms - Athos’ arm still across his back and shoulders, Aramis now doing the same from the opposite side, while Porthos encircled them all in his steady grip. It was momentarily suffocating, but the feeling vanished almost at once, replaced with a sense of safety and comfort he hadn’t experienced since stepping foot onto the battlefield. He relaxed into their hold, his breathing evening as he luxuriated in the warmth of his brothers’ embrace.


	19. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their time at the chateau had been difficult, but the past day had been exceptionally so, and the stress, lack of food and sleep, and his injuries were all exacting a toll on his weary body that would soon demand payment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great comments on the last chapter. Some of the comfort in hurt/comfort coming up next.

They had remained tangled in each other’s embrace until Aramis reasonably pointed out that they all needed medical attention, preferably while they were still conscious enough to seek it. With a rueful grin, Porthos had released his hold that had relaxed over the minutes since they’d come together, giving the others some space. Aramis was the next to shift, removing his arm from around the Gascon’s shoulders, until only Athos and d’Artagnan maintained any form of physical contact. Unsurprisingly, the older man was unwilling to relinquish his hold, and the marksman reflected that they were all likely to be somewhat needier of each other’s presence in the coming days.

 

Porthos rose stiffly to his feet, unable to hide the grimace on his face as his tender back muscles protested their overuse. A glance in Aramis’ direction confirmed what he’d already suspected, and he anticipated several days of restricted duty until the medic was sufficiently satisfied that his friend had recovered.

 

Once upright, the large man extended a hand to the marksman, Aramis peering at it uncertainly before Porthos gave a grunt of annoyance, encouraging his friend to finally allow himself to be helped to his feet. They held onto each other for several seconds until Aramis was confident that his injured leg could bear his weight. The men’s focus turned next to their friends on the ground, Athos’ arm still encircling the Gascon, while the young man had leaned further into his mentor’s embrace. The act was so unlike the normally brash and confident soldier they’d come to know that Aramis had to look away for a moment to swallow thickly.

 

Seeing the emotion painted on the marksman’s face Porthos stepped in, “d’Artagnan, I think it’d be easiest if Athos stands first. Is that alright?” It took a moment of indecision on the Gascon’s part, but then he was nodding in agreement, sitting somewhat more upright so that his weight wasn’t resting on the other man. While Athos stood up, Porthos pushed away another wave of discomfort as he crouched down next to the young man.

 

“Here,” Porthos said as he placed a hand on d’Artagnan’s forearm. “Hold onto me and I’ll help you up.” He ignored the way his stomach roiled when the Gascon unknowingly looked past him instead of making eye contact, and watched instead as the young man returned the familiar hold, gripping his arm tightly.

 

Taking a steadying breath, Porthos moved upwards, pulling d’Artagnan with him. As soon as they were both standing, Athos moved in closer to stabilize the young man as his head fogged with the change in altitude. The older man was speaking to the Gascon in low, comforting tones, and Porthos suddenly felt like an intruder, taking a step back and grasping Aramis’ arm instead. “Come on,” he said as he began moving towards the exit. “Let’s see what’s been going on outside while I’ve been in here rescuing all of you.”

 

The comment had the desired effect and Athos could hear the men’s welcome banter as they led the way out. He followed somewhat more slowly, painfully aware of every uneven patch of ground and how it could spell disaster for the blind man at his side. To compensate, he verbalized every adjustment in direction and uneven surface, ensuring that d’Artagnan never doubted that he was safe.

 

"You don’t have to,” the Gascon mumbled, his feet shuffling laboriously as he did his best not to place too much of his weight onto his mentor.

 

Athos looked over at the comment, seeing d’Artagnan’s normally youthful face screwed up with pain. Keeping his tone neutral, and not betraying any of his own discomfort, he asked, “Don’t have to what?”

 

Even though the young man couldn’t see, he still bashfully turned his eyes away momentarily before answering, “You don’t have to keep talking.” Despite being incredibly grateful that the older man had kept up an almost non-stop stream of words as they walked, d’Artagnan recognized how unusual the behaviour was for his friend, and didn’t want to inadvertently burden him by having him continue.

 

While Athos appreciated the gesture, he needed to imagine only for a heartbeat how terrifying it must be to be without one’s sight. That momentary glimpse was enough to keep his words flowing, regardless of the young man’s offer. “It’s of no consequence, d’Artagnan. Besides, we’ve been unable to speak until now so why would I not take advantage of the opportunity.” They walked another few steps as Athos offered, “A slight dip here.”

 

The Gascon’s heart warmed at the kindness his friend was extending to him, and although he would have liked to push it away, he could not find it within himself to do so. The time they’d spent in captivity, followed by the torture they’d endured, had tapped his limited physical and mental reserves, and he felt that he needed, even if only for a few hours, to bask in the warmth of his brotherhood with the other men. It would not always be this way, he reminded himself, and he had only a short period of time during which he’d be able to be this selfish and think of his own needs. Once the others healed, they would be dispatched to other battlefronts, while d’Artagnan would be stripped of his commission and sent back to Paris a free man.

 

The thought of returning home should have been a welcome one, but it conjured only fear. Fear of what Constance would think to now be married to an invalid that she’d have to support; fear of never being able to set eyes on his brothers or his children, should his union with his wife be fortunate to ever produce any; and fear that he would be something less than a man, unable to provide for or protect those he cared for the most, instead becoming reliant upon the goodwill and charity of others. The thought rested like ashes on his tongue and he found himself swallowing thickly against the imagined taste.

 

As if sensing his morbid considerations, Athos’ words shifted from descriptions of the terrain, “We shall most likely be returned to Paris to convalesce.”

 

The statement cut through d’Artagnan’s train of thought and his reply slipped out before he could censor himself, “All of us? Really?”

 

Although the Gascon couldn’t see the gesture, the older man gave an incline of his head. “Yes. It’s easier for those who have been seriously wounded to recover at the garrison as soon as they’re well enough to manage the trip. I believe that our foursome qualifies.”

 

There was something about his mentor’s answer that tugged at the young man’s brain, and it took mere seconds before understanding dawned. “Wait, you said our foursome. Is Aramis hurt more seriously than he’s said?” The underlying tone was a mix of concern and stirring anger, d’Artagnan believing that he’d been intentionally misled by the marksman.

 

“No,” Athos was quick to reply. “He was hurt just now as he chased after you and Peguero. I’m not certain yet how grave an injury he sustained, but his leg is bleeding quite badly and it can scarcely bear his weight.”

 

The young man was quiet for several steps before he finally stated, “He shouldn’t have done that.” Seconds later he added, “None of you should have followed me.”

 

Athos’ eyebrows rose but he bit down on the angry retort that danced on his lips, settling instead for curiosity. “Why would you not want us to come after you?”

 

Again, the silence stretched between them, filled only by their harsh breaths and occasional gasps of pain as their movement jostled tender wounds. Sensing that the Gascon was about to shut down on him, the older man prodded his friend with a soft, “d’Artagnan.”

 

Biting down on his lip for a moment as he thought, the young man hesitantly admitted, “Peguero promised that you’d be alright if I went with him without a fight. I was worried he’d go back on his word if you’d failed to kill him.”

 

That he and Aramis had been used to negotiate d’Artagnan’s cooperation galled Athos, and his stomach churned at the thought, but he didn’t voice any of that to the young man at his side. Instead, he replied, “Peguero proved early on that he was not a man to be trusted. Besides, you should never trade your life for anyone else’s.”

 

d’Artagnan began shaking his head vehemently, the action so fervent that the older man had to adjust his grip so the Gascon wouldn’t slip from his grasp. He brought them both to a stop as the young man countered, “I knew he had no honor; that’s why I went with him. I’m certain he would have killed you outright if I’d tried to resist.”

 

Athos couldn’t help the annoyed sigh that deflated his chest, still frustrated that his friend would think to sacrifice himself for his and Aramis’ wellbeing. “d’Artagnan, we would have fended for ourselves, just as we obviously did. There was no reason for you to place yourself in harm’s way.”

 

Again, the motion of the young man’s head was indicating his disagreement. “Technically, that’s not true Athos. I’m not sure what happened once I went with Peguero, but it obviously bought you the time needed to get free.”

 

Though bereft of his vision, the Gascon’s stubborn streak remained unaffected, and Athos decided to change tact and resume the discussion another time. “It’s true that luck favored us today. I’m still uncertain how Porthos managed it, but he and the rest of the regiment arrived just after Aramis got loose. It’s thanks to him that the chateau is back in French hands.”

 

d’Artagnan gave an absent nod, his head hanging lower the further they walked. His voice was breathier as well as he questioned, “Athos, where are we going?”

 

The weak sound that reached his ears, made the older man’s worry ratchet upwards, and he took a moment to orient himself, confirming that they were drawing closer to their destination. “We’re heading for the infirmary and it’s just up ahead.” His description might have been somewhat optimistic, the large space being used to tend the wounded still a fair distance away, but he knew that d’Artagnan needed to believe they were close in order to keep his body moving.

 

Their conversation became one-sided once more as the Gascon fell silent, concentrating simply on putting one foot in front of the other. At his side, Athos was quickly reaching his limits as well, and almost as if summoned, he suddenly found another man supporting him. A second Musketeer was about to do the same for d’Artagnan, but Athos gave a swift, firm shake of his head to belay the action, which he knew would startle the boy.

 

“d’Artagnan, Munier and Gigot have arrived to help us the rest of the way. Gigot is just going support your other side, alright?” Athos waited for a shaky nod from the young man, before mirroring the gesture to the Musketeer, indicating to the man that he could now touch the Gascon. Regardless, d’Artagnan still stiffened at the additional set of hands and Athos began to offer a description of the chateau to keep the young man distracted.

 

When they eventually reached the infirmary, Athos was certain he was about to collapse, and yet he found enough strength to guide d’Artagnan to the bed that Aramis was sitting beside, clearly waiting for his patient to arrive. Porthos was nowhere to be seen and his absence momentarily made his heart jump, until the marksman gave a headshake and a soft smile, indicating there was no need for concern.

 

Turning his attention to the Gascon, Aramis spoke as the young man was deposited on the cot. “d’Artagnan, I’m happy to say that I finally have the things I need to tend to that shoulder properly. If you’ll just lie back, you can rest while I take care of everything.”

 

Instead of lying down, the young man got an earnest look on his face as he said, “Aramis, I’m sorry you got hurt because of me.”

 

The medic’s head snapped towards Athos, his eyes questioning even as he replied, “I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”

 

“Athos told me,” d’Artagnan answered, “about your leg. Is it very bad?”

 

Aramis’ expression turned to annoyance as he continued to stare at the older man, Athos staring back in turn as he waited to hear the answer to the Gascon’s question. Rolling his eyes in exasperation when he realized that both his friends were waiting for him to reply, he said, “No, it’s not bad at all. A couple of stitches and a few days of rest and I’ll be fine.” Athos raised a questioning eyebrow at the marksman and received a nod in reply; Aramis was being truthful with him. The older man dipped his chin in acknowledgement, his concern for his friends easing just slightly.

 

“Now, will you lie down for me so I can have a proper look at your wounds?” Aramis tried again, his hand landing lightly on d’Artagnan’s chest to push him back onto the pallet.

 

Caught unaware, the Gascon’s body was beginning to recline before he caught himself and sat upright once more, the hand of his uninjured arm flailing to catch onto something to stabilize him. Without thought, Athos caught the hand and gripped it tightly in his own. “It’s alright, d’Artagnan; I’ve got you.”

 

Looking from d’Artagnan, to Athos, and then back to d’Artagnan, Aramis made a decision. “d’Artagnan, would you be more comfortable if Athos stayed with you?”

 

The Gascon hated the feeling of being dependant on others, and yet he could not honestly deny the fact that his mentor’s presence gave him comfort. The idea of releasing the other man’s hand right now made his chest constrict with anxiety, so he swallowed down his pride and gave a shaky nod.

 

“That’s fine, d’Artagnan. We’ve done this dozens of times, and Athos knows how to stay out of my way while I work.” Lifting a hand, the marksman motioned to the two Musketeers who’d accompanied their Captain, indicating wordlessly to move the next cot closer to the one occupied by the Gascon. “d’Artagnan, I’d be happier if Athos could lie down and rest while I work, so I’ve had another bed positioned beside yours. Is it alright if he lies down?”

 

With a look of horror, the young man pulled his hand from his mentor’s, shame blooming on his face at the thought that he’d been keeping the other man from his own much-needed care. As soon as his fingers slipped free, Athos’ hand reached forward and renewed its hold, the older man understanding immediately what had provoked the Gascon’s reaction. “No, d’Artagnan, it’s not what you think, and I can still stay with you while I rest.”

 

Leaning forward in his seat, Aramis added his warm hand over top of his friends’, adding his own assurances too softly for the others to hear, “Athos is correct, d’Artagnan, there is no need to endure this alone.”

 

With a sigh, the tension seemed to bleed from the Gascon’s body, and he finally allowed himself to be laid down on the cot. Athos did the same next to him, all the while keeping a firm grip on the young man’s hand as Munier remained to assist the medic with his ministrations.

 

Incredibly, d’Artagnan fell asleep – or more likely, passed out – partway through the process of having his shoulder tended, and Aramis wearily sat up after binding it in clean linen. His own wound had yet to be cared for, and the pain in his thigh was becoming impossible to ignore. On top of that, his hand had begun to tremble as he’d set the last of d’Artagnan’s stitches, the shakiness an unwelcome reminder of the hours he’d spent painfully bound before being ruthlessly beaten by Peguero’s minions.

 

Athos had drifted off soon after the Gascon and, unfortunately, his shoulder still had to be examined, as did Porthos’ back, once the man returned from completing his duties as temporary commander of the Musketeers. Despite those responsibilities, the medic couldn’t help leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes, fingers pressed against them as if to chase away the grittiness that resided there.

 

Their time at the chateau had been difficult, but the past day had been exceptionally so, and the stress, lack of food and sleep, and his injuries were all exacting a toll on his weary body that would soon demand payment. Although Aramis was relatively certain that his wound wasn’t overly serious, he dreaded having to remove the red-stained bandage and place the stitches that would close it. It would hardly be the first time he’d had to sew his own skin closed, but experience didn’t make it hurt any less.

 

He let his hand drop to his lap and surprised himself by yawning widely, a sure sign that he had little time left to do what needed to be done before his body eventually betrayed him. Grudgingly, he opened his eyes and found himself peering into Porthos’ warm and smiling face. “You look about done in,” the large man said kindly.

 

With a rueful grin, Aramis nodded tiredly, there being no reason to deny it. “It’s been a long day,” he remarked.

 

“It’s been _several_ long days,” Porthos corrected him and the marksman couldn’t disagree.

 

Sitting up straighter, the medic waved a hand towards Athos as he said, “Let me have a look at Athos and then I’ll check your back; I want to make sure your heroics today didn’t set you back any.”

 

Porthos was still smiling at him, but now he was also shaking his head, “No, ‘Mis, you’ve done enough and now it’s time to let someone take care of you.”

 

Aramis’ expression turned bemused as he replied, “If only that were possible, my friend, but I’m currently the only one around with any medical training.”

 

“That’s where you’re wrong, ‘Mis,” Porthos countered, shifting his body slightly to reveal another man standing a few feet away. Turning to face the newcomer, the large man raised his voice as he said, “Dr. Pernet, this is Aramis; Aramis, meet Dr. Pernet.”

 

The physician stepped forward and gave a slight tip of his head as he remarked, “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I understand from Captain Porthos that you’ve done an admirable job taking on the role of doctor in my absence.”

 

Aramis turned his inquiring gaze to Porthos as he silently mouthed, “Captain?”

 

Porthos gave a minor shake of his head, indicating that it was a story for another time. Out loud he said, “Aramis has been tending our injuries ever since I can remember, and has saved my life, and others’, more times that I can count.”

 

The marksman reddened at the praise, but he didn’t comment, instead addressing Pernet, “Doctor, I would be grateful for your assistance. There are those here who still need to be tended, and that’s without knowing how many others will arrive later to be cared for.”

 

The physician’s eyes sparkled with amusement as he turned to face Porthos. “I understand now what you meant, Captain.” The large man gave a dip of his chin in reply, leaving Aramis confused by the exchange. Addressing the marksman once more, Pernet explained, “You misunderstand, Aramis; I am not here to assist you, but to relieve you. The Captain has explained that you were treated poorly during your captivity, so I will tend your wounds and then you will rest.”

 

Aramis’ face flashed with a look of betrayal, but Porthos was quick to intervene. “Aramis, how about the two of you check Athos together and then you let him take care of your leg? I promise I’ll be a good little patient, and let him see my back once the more serious injuries have been sorted.” Although it remained unsaid, the marksman could hear the imploring “please” at the end of his friend’s words.

 

As if sensing the medic’s continued hesitation, Pernet added, “I promise you I will care for your friends as if they were my own family.” The sincerity in the man’s face was undeniable and Aramis found himself agreeing, his shoulders slumping as he relaxed back into his seat, while his head gave a weary nod.

 

“Excellent,” the physician proclaimed, already moving to set down his things and remove his doublet, obviously eager to get to work.

 

As the doctor prepared his equipment, Aramis threw a mock glare at his friend, “You didn’t play fairly.”

 

Porthos chuckled as he replied, “When ‘ave you ever known me not to stack the deck in my favor?”

 

There was no time for Aramis to reply as Pernet returned, inviting the medic to Athos’ side so they could begin their exam. Porthos smiled sweetly at his brief victory, Aramis throwing him a look that promised retribution, just as soon as he could stand up by himself. Unfortunately, that day was not today, and he tiredly extended a hand to his friend, Porthos gripping it tightly for several seconds before helping him stand. Aramis found himself squeezing back just as hard, suddenly appreciating the simple fact that he had his brother – all of his brothers – back at his side.


	20. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The smile slowly slipped as his gaze returned to the Gascon, realizing that the battle to reunite their foursome had only just begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the wonderful response to the last chapter. Seems like the main focus now is on d'Artagnan's sight, so I'll see what I can do about addressing that...in a bit. Hope you enjoy this next part!

Dr. Pernet had been a man of his word and once Athos’ wound had been checked, cleaned and re-bandaged, he’d turned his attention to Aramis. The wound to the marksman’s leg had been graver than the man had let on, and the physician had given his patient a look of disapproval. When Aramis had tried to innocently shrug, the pain in his tender shoulder muscles had made him wince, cueing the doctor to the next area of examination. As a result, the medic had ended up stripped to his torn braies, his torso a terrible patchwork of dark blues and purples, the color deepening to black over his right side where a rib had been broken.

 

Had it not been for Porthos’ watchful eye, Aramis would never have allowed such a thorough examination, but his stalwart friend knew him too well and was determined to make sure that nothing was overlooked. By the time that Dr. Pernet had finished, the marksman was grateful to be herded into a bed of his own, just on the other side of d’Artagnan, a soothing liniment rubbed into his discolored skin and his torn wrists cleaned and bandaged. The surface beneath him pressed uncomfortably on his many bruises, and he’d been certain that he’d never be able to fall asleep, but within a minute, he’d lost his hold on consciousness.

 

The doctor had insisted on checking Porthos’ wound next, tactfully pointing out that the regiment needed their Captain, thereby making the officer’s welfare his most immediate concern. Recognizing that the physician was not above telling the others of his non-compliance, Porthos had grudgingly allowed his healing wound to be poked and prodded, clamping his jaw shut against the moans of pain that wanted to be voiced. He’d believed that his act had adequately fooled the doctor until Pernet spoke. “Drink this, please,” he said, offering the Musketeer a small vial of clear liquid. At Porthos’ raised eyebrow, the doctor explained, “It is nothing too strong, but it will ease your pain, and allow you to keep going for a few more hours.”

 

Porthos held the other man’s eye for a moment longer to assure himself of the honesty of the words he’d heard, before throwing back the contents of the small vessel. Taking the empty vial from the Musketeer’s hand, Pernet cautioned, “Although this will keep you on your feet, it only masks the pain. Your body will eventually rebel, and there is no replacement for the proper rest you desperately need. Please, do not stay away from the infirmary for any longer than necessary.” Pernet had laid his hand gently on the large man’s forearm with his last words, and Porthos was touched by the genuine care the physician was showing him.

 

Privately thanking de la Grange’s foresight in immediately summoning Pernet when the battle had turned in their favour, Porthos tilted his head in agreement. “Alright, doctor, I promise I won’t do anything more than absolutely necessary, and I’ll stand down as soon as I’m able.” This time it was Pernet who held the Musketeer’s gaze to judge his sincerity, and returned the man’s nod with one of his own when he was satisfied.

 

Porthos had taken a last look at his friends as he readied to depart, noting the pallor of Athos’ face, the gaunt planes of d’Artagnan’s, and the lines of pain etched into Aramis’. In the last week, he’d nearly lost all three of them, and the realization made his heart clench uncomfortably. Forcing himself to take a deep breath, he revelled in the simple fact that they were all still alive, with the most immediate battle facing them being the recovery of their health. This was, he acknowledged, something that would be easier for some than for others, considering the fact that d’Artagnan might be left permanently blind.

 

The thought of the young man being so terribly invalided and removed permanently from their midst, made Porthos’ adrenaline spike again, and he pushed the thought aside, resolving to speak to Aramis at his earliest opportunity to get his friend’s thoughts on the matter. The idea made him start, as he realized there was another who could help, and he turned back to the physician as he called, “Dr. Pernet.” The man moved towards him, and when they were close enough, Porthos continued, “Our friend, d’Artagnan, he was apparently blinded several days ago by a pistol’s misfire.”

 

The doctor was already nodding in understanding, “Yes, your friend Aramis told me of the incident as I tended his wounds.”

 

Porthos hesitated then, afraid of what he might hear, but ultimately needing to be prepared. “What are his chances of getting his sight back?”

 

Pernet adopted an expression of contrition that made the Musketeer’s face blanch. When the doctor noticed the reaction, his hand again went to Porthos’ arm as he said, “No, you misunderstand my hesitation. The eyes are delicate and we lack sufficient understanding. That your friend has not yet regained his sight is worrying, but that is not to say things might not still improve. When he wakes, I will wrap them so they can be left alone to heal. In this case, only time will tell.” Pernet’s expression had turned apologetic for not being able to give more assurances, but the mere possibility that d’Artagnan might see again was enough to spark hope in Porthos’ chest.

                                                                                                                                       

“Thank you, doctor,” Porthos replied. “It’s good to know there’s still a chance he’ll see again.”

 

The kindly physician gave a dip of his chin before turning away, needing to tend to the other patients that had been brought in. When Porthos exited the infirmary, he was joined immediately by LaRue, the man having appointed himself as the temporary Captain’s keeper. They made their way out into the courtyard together, their pace slow in deference to Porthos’ healing body.

 

“Reports indicate that the last of the Spanish soldiers are being rounded up.” LaRue paused as a wide grin split his face. “Those who haven’t already dropped their weapons and gone running off, that is.” Porthos gave a slight nod, encouraging the man to continue. “The Comte and his men are already breaking camp and preparing to return to the chateau. In the meantime, our regiment is holding it, in the unlikely event the Spanish regroup and attack before the militia is ready to take over.”

 

They passed through the doors leading outside and took several steps away from the house, stopping to one side of the large courtyard. Porthos’ gaze landed on the wooden pole where he’d found Athos’ tied, shifting his eyes next to the frame where the Spanish soldier had been found flogged and barely alive. LaRue was speaking again, and the injured man pulled his focus back with some effort. “We haven’t gotten the official word yet, but the men are saying we’ll all be leaving soon to join General de Champs at his main camp.”

 

Another absent nod met the Musketeer’s words as Porthos considered their implication. Aramis was in the best condition out of the three injured men, but none of them were truly well enough to manage a trip over rocky, uneven ground in the back of a hard wagon. Once they regrouped with the main force, he had no doubt that his friends would be sent back to Paris to properly recover, but that wouldn’t excuse them from the half-day trip to de Champs’ location. And what would happen after Paris, Porthos wondered. Aramis and Athos would most likely be deployed again, but d’Artagnan would not. As the large man considered how quickly the young man would be ripped from his life, he found himself unaccountably chilled.

 

“Porthos?” LaRue was looking at him with a concerned expression, and the temporary commander wondered how long the Musketeer had been trying to get his attention. “Are you alright?”

 

“Fine,” Porthos mumbled automatically, surprised at how difficult it was for his lips to form the simple word.

 

LaRue’s face showed that he was unconvinced, and moments later, Porthos found himself being dragged back towards the infirmary, the other man holding tightly to his arm. As they moved up the steps to the main house, he found himself stumbling, coordination having deserted him for some reason. The hallways of the estate were no better, and he idly trailed a hand along the walls as the features around him dimmed intermittently, making him wonder what was happening. Before he knew it, they’d arrived at their destination, and he was being pushed onto an empty cot.

 

Porthos startled and jerked back as Pernet’s face appeared in front of his eyes, and the physician tutted unhappily. “Captain, it is good that you’re back.” He was pushing his patient sideways as he spoke, and Porthos found he lacked the strength or the wherewithal to resist. As uncomfortable as infirmary beds normally were, this one seemed to envelop him, and he relaxed gratefully against the scratchy pillow under his cheek. Seconds later, his eyes had closed and he’d drifted off, leaving two men frowning at him in concern.

 

“Is he alright?” LaRue asked, directing his question to Pernet.

 

“Oh, yes, I believe he’ll be fine after some proper rest,” the physician replied, his frown deepening momentarily at the warmth he felt on the injured man’s forehead. “He has pushed his body beyond its limits, and his body has finally decided to push back.”

 

The doctor straightened from his examination, pulling a thin blanket up to cover Porthos to his chin. LaRue gave a nod as the concern faded from Pernet’s face, satisfied with the physician’s reply. “If there is another who can take command in his place, I recommend you go speak with them now,” the doctor stated. “Our Captain is unlikely to wake for some time.”

 

LaRue’s eyes darted from Porthos to Athos, acknowledging the truth of Pernet’s words since neither their permanent leader nor his replacement seemed in any fit state to direct them. Wiping a hand across his face, he sighed as he wondered who the regiment could turn to next.

* * *

He was woken by the sound of soft voices, and as much as he preferred to remain asleep, he was curious to see to whom they belonged. Opening his eyes, he blinked several times, noting the dark cream-coloured ceiling above him, framed by elegantly sweeping beams. For a moment, he considered trying to sit up, but his body felt heavy and warm, and he was in no hurry to dispel the comforting sensation. Instead, he let his head roll to one side, his view of the room shifting accordingly. Several feet away stood two men, and his brow furrowed briefly as his sluggish mind churned until recognition dawned.

 

“Comte,” he breathed out, not realizing until the duo’s eyes turned to him that he’d spoken aloud.

 

de la Grange smiled and stepped closer, the man with him following and apparently just as pleased to see him awake. “Captain,” the noble said by way of greeting.

 

“Captain?” the man next to him repeated, and Athos frowned at him, racking his brain for any memory of the second man.

 

“Yes, Doctor,” the Comte confirmed. “This is Athos, Captain of the Musketeers.”

 

“But, I thought Porthos commanded the Musketeers,” the physician uttered in confusion.

 

Athos frowned while de la Grange shook his head, replying, “No, Athos is their Captain. Porthos had simply taken over in Athos’ absence.”

 

“Ah,” the doctor answered in comprehension.

 

“Athos, this is Dr. Pernet, my personal physician. I sent for him as soon as your men had recaptured the chateau,” the noble explained. “Fortunately he was not far away and was able to return quickly.”

 

The statement had an unexpected effect, and the two men were startled to see the Musketeer attempting to sit up, his eyes darting around the rest of the room. “Captain, what is it?” Pernet asked, rushing forward to try and keep his patient from rising.

 

“Aramis?” he questioned, his gaze still flitting around the room.

 

“He is fine,” the doctor replied, deciding to stop restraining the man and help him sit up instead. With Pernet’s steady hold, Athos found himself seated sideways on the cot, the physician pointing to a spot slightly behind him.

 

Twisting carefully to avoid exacerbating the throbbing in his shoulder, Athos’ eyes settled first on d’Artagnan and then, next to him, Aramis. Both men were sleeping and he found his heartrate returning to normal at the sight.

 

“You see, Captain,” Pernet reiterated, “There is no reason for concern.”

 

“How are they?” Athos asked, shifting to face the other man while cradling his left elbow in his right hand.

 

"They are doing well," the doctor responded, "considering." The last word caught Athos’ attention and he raised a questioning eyebrow, prompting Pernet to continue. “They have been prisoners for several days and that takes its toll. Nothing extraordinary, you understand, simply the usual. They are thinner, I expect, than normal, and they wear the bruises and other marks of their captivity.”

 

Athos’ gaze landed on Aramis’ bare chest; the marks there were dark and angry, painting a picture of just how difficult things had been for the two men. d’Artagnan’s chest was mostly covered by a blanket, but his left shoulder was heavily swathed in bandages. Further up, the older man could see the sharp lines of the Gascon’s cheekbones below the young man’s freshly bandaged eyes, another fact that lent credence to Pernet’s statement. He found himself nodding as his gaze began roaming, not even realizing he was doing so until his mind registered that they were missing their fourth. “Do you know where I can find Porthos?” he asked.

 

The physician indicated another bed nearer the other side of the room. Athos’ heart clenched in concern as he recognized the large, sleeping figure that lay there. “What happened? Is he alright?”

 

“He is as well as you are, Captain,” Pernet replied. “Or perhaps somewhat better, since his wound is older than yours. However, his efforts today were too much for his healing body, and he desperately needed to rest. I expect that he will wake within a few hours.”

 

“He didn’t hurt himself did he?” Athos asked, worried that his friend had overexerted himself by mounting an attack on the estate.

 

“He did not cause any new damage,” the doctor confirmed. “His back continues to heal well.”

 

For the first time, Athos took notice of his own state, seeing his shoulder similarly bound to d’Artagnan’s. At some point, he’d also lost his shirt and he scanned the space around for it now. As though sensing his thoughts, Pernet offered, “Your shirt was beyond repair, Captain.” He stepped to one side and picked up a folded garment, handing it to the Musketeer. “We were able to find this one in the things left behind when the Spanish left.”

 

Athos took the shirt and shook it out, considering it for a moment as he realized he was about to don something that had belonged to their enemy. Unfortunately, he had little choice, unless he preferred walking around half-clothed or with a blanket covering him. “Thank you, doctor, this will do nicely,” he replied as he made a mental note to have their things brought from their camp.

 

As the injured man began to ease his left arm into the sleeve, Pernet commented, “I do not think Aramis will approve of you leaving.”

 

Athos pulled the shirt over his head and smoothed down the front before responding, “Then you know Aramis well.”

 

The doctor smiled as he answered, “Not at all, but I recognized the devotion with which he tended to you and your young friend. It seemed to me something greater than a man caring for his fellow brothers-in-arms.”

 

Athos shakily gained his feet, Pernet watching closely as his patient adjusted to being vertical. The Musketeer moved to the end of his cot and paused to look at Aramis’ sleeping face. Neither confirming or denying the doctor’s comment, he addressed the man before he left. “Tell him not to worry. I’ll be back once I’ve had a chance to check on things.”

 

Pernet gave a solemn nod that he would pass along the message. With a dip of his head toward the comte, Athos departed, needing to attend to his duties despite the fact that his heart remained in the infirmary with his dearest friends. 

* * *

Aramis woke quietly, recent events flooding his mind with images of blood, pain, and hatred. The latter emotion was solely for the Spanish officer who’d held and tortured them, and the marksman let out a slow, controlled breath as he remembered the man’s end. He was lying on his back, and his body thrummed softly with discomfort, a sensation that he knew would grow with movement. Despite the anticipation of pain, he let his head roll to one side, his eyes landing on d’Artagnan’s sleeping face.

 

Shifting carefully, he turned slightly to his side, biting down on the hiss of pain as his leg was jarred, and again as his broken rib made itself known. Their cots were close enough together than Aramis was able to reach over, and he laid a hand gently on the young man’s belly, resting it there for a few seconds as he vividly recalled the slashes that had been cut into his friend’s skin. Even through the blanket, he could feel the padding of bandages, and was relieved that the older injury had been found and treated since he’d forgotten to tend to it himself.

 

His hand crept upwards then and came to rest on the Gascon’s upper arm, Aramis needing to feel the warm skin to confirm that the boy was alive. It had been a close thing – too close, his mind automatically corrected, and his eyes clenched tightly shut as he dragged in a ragged breath. When he reopened them, his vision was blurry from the moisture that threatened to spill, and he blinked several times as he struggled to compose himself.

 

Throughout their ordeal, d’Artagnan hadn’t once blamed him for their circumstances. The young man had steadfastly refused any assignment of guilt on the medic’s part, and Aramis couldn’t help but think it may have been easier if the Gascon had lashed out at him instead. Due to his actions, the young man had been repeatedly hurt and almost killed, and Aramis was unable to be as forgiving as d’Artagnan had been. And although their captivity had come to an end, things were far from over, and the medic’s gaze darted upwards to the Gascon’s wrapped eyes, knowing that underneath sat two useless orbs.

 

If only he’d been able to prevent the misfire, or the subsequent strike to d’Artagnan’s head. Barring that, more immediate treatment, or the aid of someone more proficient than him, might have been able to salvage the Gascon’s sight. But Aramis’ bargain with the Spanish had taken that chance away from the young man, and had doomed him to a life as a cripple. The realization brought a fresh swell of tears to his eyes, and this time he couldn’t hold them back. They slipped from his eyes, one after another, trailing down across his nose and along his cheek to soak into the thin pillow beneath his head.

 

He startled and then moaned in pain as a hand landed on his collarbone, automatically withdrawing his hand from the Gascon’s arm to press it against his aching chest instead. “Hey, it’s alright” Porthos murmured, his fingers shifting to rub gently at the taut muscles of the medic’s shoulder and neck. He continued the motion for over a minute until he felt some of the tension bleed from his friend. Lifting his hand away, he shifted his hold to the marksman’s hip, tugging gently as he coaxed his friend to roll onto his back. “Come on now, that position can’t be good for your leg or your chest.”

 

Aramis allowed himself to be repositioned, his arm coming up to lay across his eyes as the last of his tears squeezed out through closed lids. He could feel Porthos’ warm hand resting lightly on his chest, carefully staying away from his right side where his damaged rib protested each breath. “Aramis,” his friend called softly. “Look at me.”

 

It took several long moments before the marksman felt prepared to comply, taking a slightly deeper inhale and grimacing with the pull on his flank. Grudgingly, he let his arm drop to his side, opening his eyes and blinking away the remaining moisture. A calloused thumb came up and wiped away the last of the tears, and Aramis had a momentary pang of guilt at how pathetic he was being. As though sensing his friend’s embarrassment, the larger man’s hand returned to its previous position, even as he admonished, “None of that now. You’ve been through a lot and it’s natural to feel overwhelmed.”

 

_Overwhelmed_ , Aramis thought to himself incredulously. How could his friend seriously believe that it was anything other than a deep regret and shame for his actions that had led to his current state? The marksman gave a shake of his head as it lay on the pillow, needing the man at his side to understand. “Not overwhelmed,” he bit out. “All of this,” he said, lifting his hand momentarily to motion toward the sleeping Gascon. “It’s my fault. If I hadn’t agreed to Peguero’s offer, all of this could have been avoided.”

 

Porthos raised an eyebrow at his friend’s words, already certain that the marksman’s judgement was impaired, and that there could have been no other decision the man could have made. Recognizing the medic’s fragile state, he countered, “Aramis, you did what you had to do to keep yourself and d’Artagnan alive. There’s no shame in that.”

 

The marksman's eyes closed again as he once more shook his head in denial of his friend's words. Porthos sat patiently next to the man, his thumb idly rubbing comforting circles on the medic’s chest, and Aramis focused on the soothing feeling to ground himself. When he felt like he could speak without sobbing, he opened his eyes. “It’s not that simple. Maybe if I hadn’t admitted that I could tend to the wounded…”

 

The marksman’s words were cut off as Porthos interjected, “Then we woulda buried you and d’Artagnan days ago.” The words were spoken firmly and left no room for debate, but Aramis wasn’t finished yet.

 

“It’s possible they would have let us be,” the medic suggested, even though he knew how foolish the words sounded even as he voiced them. At his friend’s snort, Aramis tried again. “At least d’Artagnan might have been left alone, and he could have been brought back to camp and properly tended.”

 

Porthos’ expression hardened as his hand shifted to hold Aramis’ wrist. “Now you listen to me,” he began sternly. “There’s no way either of you would have made it off that battlefield alive if you hadn’t done what you did.” The marksman opened his mouth as if to protest, but the larger man’s warning glare kept him silent. “You know I’m right. You made the best decision possible in an impossible situation, and I’m grateful that you did.”

 

“But, d’Artagnan and Athos both got hurt as a result,” Aramis argued.

 

Porthos snorted as he replied, “d’Artagnan has you to thank for his life, and Athos…” He trailed off as he scrubbed his free hand across his face. Some of the tension ebbed from his shoulders as he seemed to slump, his voice growing softer as he continued. “Athos is a bloody fool, and I’d wring his neck for what he did if I wasn’t so damn relieved that he’s alive.”

 

Dropping his head for a moment and giving it a shake, Porthos dredged up a hint of a smile as his gaze once more found his friend’s. “Aramis, look, Athos did what he did because he couldn’t stand the thought of losing any of us. I was already hurt, and then you two were taken. He’d never admit it, but I think it nearly broke him. You need to stop blaming yourself for what happened so we can be strong for him and d’Artagnan.”

 

Aramis’ head rolled back towards the Gascon’s, whose face was beginning to show signs of discomfort, a sure sign that the pain draught was wearing off. He couldn’t dispute Porthos’ words. The young man had not for a single moment blamed him for their situation, and had even gone so far as to thank him for saving his life. As for Athos, Porthos was correct there too, and he knew without a doubt that nothing could have kept the older man from coming for them. Finally, he turned back to face his friend, the large man still waiting patiently. “Alright,” he said, with a small nod. “You win. No more guilt for me over what happened.”

 

Porthos grinned down at the marksman, relieved that he’d managed to get through to his friend. The smile slowly slipped as his gaze returned to the Gascon, realizing that the battle to reunite their foursome had only just begun.


	21. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Truly, d’Artagnan, you are not alone in this,” Athos breathed out, allowing the young man to rest his face against his shoulder as he settled his chin on top of the Gascon’s head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the continued interest in this story and d'Artagnan's situation. Just one more chapter to go after this one and I promise things will be resolved somehow by the end. Enjoy!

It was the unrelenting ache that brought him back to awareness, his entire left side feeling heavy and throbbing cruelly in time with his heart. He moaned at the sensation, unknowingly tossing his head on his pillow as he tried to escape the pain. Moments later, his cheek was cupped in someone’s warm palm, and he unconsciously leaned into the comforting grip, bringing a smile to the face above him.

 

Aramis was pleased to see the young man waking, and the fact that his touch stilled d’Artagnan’s movements warmed his heart. The thought triggered a memory of Athos sitting next to the Gascon’s side in a similar fashion, and the medic’s smile slipped as he turned his head to search the room for their wayward Captain. Porthos had departed only minutes before, ostensibly to find Athos and bring him back. Now that d’Artagnan was waking, Aramis felt impatient about the men’s return in order to ease the young man’s transition to awareness.

 

The image of the Gascon’s keening form was still at the forefront of his thoughts, and he couldn’t help but believe that d’Artagnan would need all of his friends at his side as he came to terms with everything that had happened. It would have been one thing if the young man had been able to see with his own eyes that his brothers were alive and well, but with that option unavailable to him, it would require the presence of all three of them to finally ease some of their blind friend’s fears.

 

d’Artagnan groaned again, bringing Aramis’ attention back to his patient, and the medic cradled his tender side as he bent closer, stabilizing the broken rib that stabbed at his flank with every breath. “It’s alright, d’Artagnan,” he soothed. “Everyone’s safe.”

 

He cursed the bandage that covered the Gascon’s eyes, preventing him from seeing the one clear sign that his friend was awake. Instead, he watched for other indications that the young man was aware: the shift in his breathing, the tension in his limbs, and the slow dawning that something covered the upper part of his face.

 

When comprehension arrived, it happened quickly, and d’Artagnan’s right hand was suddenly at his eyes, attempting to remove whatever sat there. Aramis’ hand followed a second later, gripping the young man’s fingers and pulling them away. “No, d’Artagnan, you need to leave that alone. The doctor has wrapped your eyes so they can heal.”

 

Several long moments passed as the Gascon processed what he’d heard. “Aramis?” he eventually mumbled when he’d recognized the speaker’s voice.

 

“Yes, d’Artagnan, I’m right here. You’re going to be fine, but you need to leave that alone,” the medic repeated, wanting to ensure that the young man had registered his earlier admonishment.

 

“Why?” the young man asked, still confused and his mind somewhat dulled by the remnants of the pain draught he’d consumed.

 

“Why?” Aramis repeated, for a moment wondering what his friend meant. “Oh, the bandage. Dr. Pernet believes that your sight may return if your eyes have the opportunity to rest. That means they need to stay wrapped for the next week.”

 

Above the linen that covered his eyes, d’Artagnan’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t say any more about the bandage. Privately, he’d already resigned himself to the fact that he was blind, but the hope in Aramis’ voice suggested that his friend needed to believe there was still a possibility the he’d regain his sight. Given everything they’d endured, the Gascon decided not to argue the point. Instead, he turned his mind to other matters, needing to know that everyone else was alright. “Athos and Porthos?”

 

“Both doing well and should be back shortly,” Aramis replied, his eyes once more drifting towards the room’s entrance. As if beckoned, the two men appeared, and the medic couldn’t help the quirking of his lips at his friends’ approach. Both were still moving stiffly, and even from a distance Aramis could see the telltale signs of pain on the older man’s face. The marksman wasn’t sure exactly how long it had been since Athos had left the infirmary, but from the looks of him, it had been too long ago.

 

Without thought, Aramis shifted and began pushing himself upwards, his right leg stiff and slow to move as he attempted to stand. He couldn’t prevent the gasp that emerged at the fire that spiked in his thigh as he heavily fell back onto the stool he’d been sitting on. Moaning lowly, he bent over the injured limb, his hands gripping it on either side of the wound he’d sustained as he tried to push back the pain. Seconds later he could feel Porthos’ hand on the nape of his neck as the larger man coaxed him to relax and slow his breathing, which had turned to shallow pants with his pain.

 

Porthos was now tugging at his shoulder, and grudgingly Aramis allowed himself to be pulled upright as his friend tutted over him. “That position can’t be any good for your broken rib.”

 

With a shaky, breathless laugh, Aramis wiped an arm across his brow to remove the sweat that had collected there, before answering, “It wasn’t my rib that I was focused on.”

 

Next to him, Porthos frowned, having witnessed the marksman’s ill-conceived attempt to stand. “What were you thinkin’, trying to put weight on that leg?”

 

Giving his head a shake from where it still hung low to his chest, the medic replied, “I forgot.” Lifting his gaze up to the larger man’s, he wore a sheepish expression despite the deep lines of pain surrounding his eyes. “I was worried about Athos.”

 

The statement reminded him of the initial reason for his failed attempt to rise, and Aramis now sought out the older man, finding him sitting on the edge of the cot on d’Artagnan’s other side. Athos’ face was pale and pinched with pain, and he cradled his injured arm in his lap while his right hand encircled d’Artagnan’s wrist, having recognized the young man’s need for touch to counteract the absence of sight. “You need something more for the pain,” Aramis stated. “And a sling for that arm; having it loose is just pulling on your shoulder.”

 

The medic’s concern was so familiar that Athos couldn’t help the ghost of a smile that graced his features. As much as he wanted to dispute his friend’s words, he couldn’t bring himself to do so. The truth was that his shoulder ached abominably, to the point where he was once more feeling nauseous and shaky. His earlier rest had given him sufficient energy to check on the state of his men, but when Porthos had appeared at his side, he’d happily accompanied his friend back to the infirmary, recognizing that his limited strength would soon desert him.

 

Glancing down at his protégé and seeing the young man in a similar sate, Athos suggested, “I believe that we could both do with a pain draught.”

 

As if sensing that his mentor’s words were directed at him, d’Artagnan was quick to reply, “I’m fine.”

 

Porthos snorted while the other two men smiled, none of them even remotely convinced by the Gascon’s assertion. “That’s a hard claim to make when you’re currently the only one of us flat on ‘is back in bed,” the larger man teased.

 

His lack of sight didn’t diminish d’Artagnan’s stubborn streak and he scowled at the men around his bed. When his attempted glare prompted the soft sounds of laughter from his friends, the young man’s hard expression slipped away, and he asked instead, “Why is that exactly? I’m not the only one hurt.”

 

The three traded contrite looks, but it was Athos who was the first to reply. “I woke some time ago, and needed to check on the regiment and the status of the chateau. I’ve just returned with the intention of resting.”

 

Athos looked pointedly at Aramis, indicating that the marksman should explain himself next. “Technically, _I am_ resting. I only decided a short time ago to get up and move to sit at your bedside.” The medic wore a smug expression as he ended, certain that his explanation was sound.

 

d’Artagnan’s body language was still expectant and Porthos realized belatedly that the Gascon was waiting to hear from him as well. “I…uh…rested earlier too,” he began, at first stumbling over his words. “Afterwards, I sat with Aramis for a bit until he woke, and then went in search of our wayward Captain so he didn’t overdo things.”

 

The Gascon seemed thoughtful for several moments before he pronounced, “So it’s safe to assume then, that all of you have ignored the doctor’s orders by being out of bed?”

 

A new voice replied, confirming the young man's assertion. "I believe that is a fair statement of what has transpired," Pernet agreed, his expression somewhat amused as he met the gaze of each of the Musketeers.

 

“Doctor,” Athos responded, nonplussed by the man’s presence. “We’ve received orders from General de Champs and have been advised to depart tomorrow for his location. Is there anyone under your care who is unable to make the journey?” The question brought a sombre air to their gathering, and from the corner of his eye, Athos could see both Aramis and Porthos looking interestedly at Pernet as they waited for him to answer.

 

The physician stroked his beard for several seconds as he looked around the infirmary before replying. “There are two others whose wounds are as serious as yours, but both should be able to stand the journey well enough, assuming they are not expected to ride.” At the quick shake of Athos’ head, the man continued. “I can provide you with bandages and something for their pain – yours, as well,” he commented, recognizing that the group before him would also need medication to bear the trip. “If you tell me what time you want to leave, I can have everything ready and waiting for you.”

 

The Captain gave a small nod of acknowledgement as he said, “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll make sure you’re advised of the time, and I’ll have a wagon prepared to receive the others.”

 

“And for yourselves, too, of course,” Pernet added, waiting to see if the Musketeer would attempt to dispute his own need to transported in such a fashion.

 

Aramis added the weight of his own stare to the doctor’s, certain that Athos was nowhere near well enough to be riding. Sensing their scrutiny, Athos’ gave a tilt of his head in acquiescence. “Of course, Doctor, for us too.”

 

“Excellent,” Pernet beamed at him. “Now, I suggest you take some time to rest. I’ll have dinner brought up and you can eat here.”

 

Reminded of his earlier concerns, Aramis interjected, “Perhaps another pain draught is in order for Athos and d’Artagnan to help them rest more easily?”

 

The doctor’s gaze swept over both men and he was already nodding as he replied, “I’ll have it brought over immediately.” Satisfied at the status of his recalcitrant patients, the physician moved away, leaving the foursome alone once more.

 

This time it was d’Artagnan who broke the silence as he questioned, “What will happen after we reach the General’s camp?” He already had a fairly good idea of what to expect, but now found himself dreading the idea of returning home, having prepared for the fact that he would not survive his captivity.

 

Athos glanced at Aramis, who licked his dry lips before answering, “We’ll be returned to Paris to recover. I assume that once we’re well again, we’ll be deployed back to the front.”

 

The Gascon swallowed thickly around the lump that had unexpectedly appeared in his throat. He’d suspected as much, and yet a part of him had hoped he might be sent back on his own, allowing him some time to mourn the loss of his friends during the journey. Instead, they would complete the trip together, and the men who’d become like brothers to him would be there to witness his greatest moment of weakness as he presented himself as a cripple to his new wife.

 

His chest flushed with shame at the thought, and he wished once again that he’d died at Peguero’s hands, the idea of living without his sight suddenly so much more daunting than the idea of dying. He could feel tears welling in his eyes and was absurdly grateful for the fact that they were covered, the errant moisture escaping only to be soaked up by the linen bandage.

 

Around the young man’s bed, his friends could see the sudden shift in d’Artagnan’s demeanor, Aramis having voiced the outcome they all dreaded. It was not that they were afraid to return to the war, but the idea of doing so without one of their group seemed so foreign a concept that they were almost unable to fathom it. Despite that, there was a very real possibility it might come to pass. “d’Artagnan,” Aramis began, needing to assuage some of the Gascon’s worry.

 

The young man gave a slight shake of his head as he drew a deeper breath and said, “No, Aramis, there’s no reason to say anything else. You haven’t told me anything I wasn’t already expecting.”

 

The medic wanted to say more, but the doctor rejoined them at that moment, passing a cup to Athos and another to Aramis, anticipating that the latter man would ensure d’Artagnan drank it. “We’ll give those a few minutes to take effect, and then I’d like to clean and redress your wounds,” Pernet announced, waiting for the men to consume their medicine.

 

“Here, let me help,” Porthos offered, already moving closer to lift the Gascon’s head so that Aramis wouldn’t have to bend. “d’Artagnan, I’m just going to help you sit up so you can drink.”

 

The young man allowed himself to be raised up and drank without comment, afterwards lying listlessly as his wounds were tended. By the time the physician had finished, d’Artagnan was succumbing to the effects of the draught, and he gratefully relaxed into the mattress beneath him. He could hear the low voices of his friends, but didn’t engage them in conversation, hoping instead that they would believe him to be asleep. He let his mind drift and his awareness flee, a last coherent thought following him as he planned what to do next. 

* * *

He had no idea of the time, but from the sounds of deep, even breathing around him, he guessed it was still early and hopefully dark. Carefully, he angled his right arm so that it was bent beneath him, offering some support as he tried to soundlessly raise his body from the bed. His wounded shoulder throbbed in time with the beat of his heart, and d’Artagnan belatedly realized that the draught he’d consumed earlier had worn off. With that realization, he hoped the brew had been more effective on Athos, preventing the older man from realizing that the Gascon was awake and moving.

 

He managed to attain a seated position, with his legs over one side so that his feet rested on the floor. Remaining hunched over himself for several minutes, he breathed carefully and swallowed down his pain. When he felt like he had enough strength to stand, he pushed himself shakily to his feet, the familiar vertigo assailing him and causing him to still his actions once more as he waited to regain some sense of equilibrium.

 

Had he been thinking clearly, he never would have attempted to journey from the room, since it wasn’t one that he’d spent any amount of time in. That fact robbed him of any idea of the layout of his surroundings, but those thoughts never occurred to him as he began to find his way out of the infirmary and away from his friends. When asked later, he would attribute his apparently successful escape to his heightened sense of hearing, bolstered by a great deal of luck. With some consideration, d’Artagnan would have realized that there was no way that he should have been able to exit the space without anyone noticing.

 

With his right hand on the wall at his side, he shuffled through what he assumed to be a hallway, and simply followed it, diverting left or right when openings presented themselves and when the sound of voices approached. He had no desire to be discovered and cared little for where he might end up – away was his only destination. At one point there were stairs, and he barely managed to catch himself and prevent a painful fall, his uninjured hand gripping the banister desperately as gravity threatened to pull him downwards. Later, he passed through a doorway, and still his progress was unimpeded, and d’Artagnan felt some of tension in his chest easing as his smelled the freshness of the air around him.

 

He continued to stumble forward until his body literally collapsed. Given the lack of sound around him, d’Artagnan resigned himself that he was either hidden well enough or not – his destiny was now in fate’s hands. Gathering the last of his strength, he dragged himself closer to the wall and leaned against it wearily, the heaving of his chest pulling at the still-healing slices on his stomach. He welcomed the sensation. The rest of his body seemed numb, and he felt oddly disconnected from himself. The detachment was not entirely unpleasant and he wondered if this would be his new reality – sleepwalking through his days and hiding himself away to endure the nights.

 

He hiccupped with an unexpected sob, despair now rolling over him in waves as he wrapped his arms around himself, his right cradling his left tightly against his chest. Now that he’d allowed himself to succumb, the tears flowed from him in a tidal wave of emotion, and he mourned for everything that his lost sight represented, from his future as a Musketeer to the life he’d dreamed of building with Constance. The enormity of it overwhelmed him and there was no way he could stop himself now that his last walls had come crumbling down.

 

Athos watched as the young man, who he loved like a brother, fell apart before his eyes. He’d woken at the boy’s fumbling attempts to leave the infirmary, and something deep within him had stopped him from calling out and preventing d’Artagnan from going. Instead, he’d followed the Gascon’s uncertain footsteps, shaking his head at anyone they saw along the way to indicate that they should be left alone. The young man clearly had had no idea of his route, and Athos had nearly given away his presence when his protégé had stepped into thin air, the only thing saving him being his firm grip on the banister. Still, the older man had been unable to breathe easily until d’Artagnan had reached the bottom and descended the final step.

 

It took every ounce of his willpower to allow the Gascon to fall, first to his knees and then his side, as his strength finally deserted him. By then, they’d exited the chateau and followed the wall around to a more secluded part of the courtyard which boasted only dirt and weeds. Athos had paused his forward motion at that point, watching over his friend as the man struggled to drag his weakened body closer to the support at his back, all but collapsing there once he’d finished.

 

Now, the older man wondered if he should approach. He knew that d’Artagnan would be deeply embarrassed at having been observed while so thoroughly falling apart, and yet Athos’ heart urged him forward, something stronger than logic compelling him to go to his brother’s side. He crossed the space between them without being aware he’d done so, and found himself on his knees before the young man, instinctively pulling him into a tight embrace. Ignoring the pull on his wounded shoulder, Athos repositioned them both and pulled the young man to his chest. Words of comfort poured from his lips as he held d'Artagnan while he wept, his fingers at some point twining themselves into the older man's shirt.

 

As his shirt became damp with the young man’s tears, Athos knew with certainty that he’d done the right thing by going to the lad, and he held on tightly, trying to share some of his limited strength with the Gascon. After a time, the violent storm of d’Artagnan’s harsh sobs quieted to something calmer, the moisture now slowly trickling down the young man’s face instead of rushing out in heavy rivers. Despite the slackening of his tears, the Gascon seemed disinclined to move and stayed closely tucked against Athos, his head cradled against his mentor’s chest.

 

When the sounds of crying were replaced by short, shallow breaths, Athos knew d’Artagnan was spent. He carefully adjusted his grip, gingerly bringing his left hand around to cup the back of the young man’s head in comfort. They remained that way for several minutes until the Gascon’s breathing calmed further, at which point Athos dared to speak. “You must not lose hope, d’Artagnan. No matter the outcome, you will always have us by your side.”

 

The statement made d’Artagnan’s breath hitch in his chest, and the older man wondered what he’d said to upset his friend. “d’Artagnan?” he hastened to ask, needing confirmation that things hadn’t just taken a turn for the worse.

 

The Gascon shook his head against Athos’ chest, his mumbling reply almost too faint to hear. “Won’t.”

 

The older man frowned at the odd statement, confident that he and the others would stand by the young man no matter what. “Of course you will. You think we would desert you because of what’s happened?”

 

The response was just as soft as his early one. “Have to.”

 

As much as he wanted to support his protégé, Athos’ frustration was beginning to build, and the young man’s short answers weren’t helping. Shifting his hold yet again, Athos leaned back slightly and then titled d’Artagnan’s face upwards so he could see it. Resolutely ignoring the fact that the Gascon couldn’t return the gaze, he asked, “What do you mean, we’ll have to?”

 

The young man tried to bury his face in his mentor’s shirt once more, but Athos kept his fingers beneath the Gascon’s chin, preventing him from hiding. Over a minute passed and the older man began to doubt that he’d receive an answer when d’Artagnan finally spoke. “You’ll have to leave and go back to the war.”

 

The young man was correct in is assertion, but had obviously missed the point that Athos was trying to make. Softening his tone, the older man countered, “But that doesn’t mean that you won’t still have us, d’Artagnan.” He sighed for a moment as he considered how to continue, determined to make his friend understand. “It’s true that we’ll be despatched again once we’re better, but there will always be a place for you at the garrison. You believe your life to be at end with the loss of your sight, but I promise that is not the case. Your skills still have value, and _if_ your blindness is permanent, then we will find a new position for you among your brothers.”

 

d’Artagnan’s fingers still gripped Athos’ shirt, but they gradually switched from their desperate hold to playing absently with the cloth as the young man processed his mentor’s words. They sat in silence for several minutes while the Gascon considered what he’d heard before answering. “Athos, I do not look for, nor want, any charity.”

 

“This is not charity, d’Artagnan,” Athos interjected, wanting to correct the young man’s assumption immediately. “We are at war and I am Captain of the Musketeers. As such, it is my responsibility to make the best possible use of the garrison’s resources, and you are among those. What kind of fool would I be to let one of my best men just walk away?”

 

At his mentor’s words, the Gascon could feel some of the steel bands around his chest loosening as Athos helped to dispel some of the fears that had been haunting him. However, the offer still seemed too good to be true, and d’Artagnan felt the need to confirm what he was hearing. “Truly, Athos, you would do this for me?”

 

“Truly, d’Artagnan, you are not alone in this,” Athos breathed out, allowing the young man to rest his face against his shoulder as he settled his chin on top of the Gascon’s head. Guessing he knew what else had been bothering the young man, he forged on quietly. “Constance will be there too.” As he felt d’Artagnan attempting to pull away from him, he tightened his hold and barreled on. “No, you do her a disservice if you doubt her. Consider all she has endured. She has a core of strength in her that will not allow her to falter, and she loves you with all her heart. There is no question that she will rejoice in your safe return, not mourn your lack of sight – that is just who she is.”

 

d’Artagnan drew a deep, shaky breath, and then another, overwhelmed by the support he was receiving and yet never should have doubted. Despite his blindness, it was as though he was seeing things clearly for the first time since he’d been injured, and he took another cleansing breath as he finally saw a possible future that didn’t end in shame and despair. “Alright,” he said, willing to allow that his friend might be right.

 

Athos quirked an eyebrow at the young man’s reply, even as relief flooded him. Matching his breathing to the Gascon’s, he replied, “Alright.” Perhaps things would be alright after all, he thought to himself, as he held his brother close.


	22. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There is no glory in war, only honorable men, and I have the privilege of having three of the most honorable at my side.”

Before they could depart the chateau, news had arrived from the General’s camp, stating that any who were severely wounded be diverted directly to Paris. de Champs had been advised of the doctor’s presence and trusted the physician to identify those who would need more time to recover, thereby sparing them the detour to the General’s location.

 

Since there would be no opportunity to speak with de Champs personally, Athos penned a letter in which he commended LaRue’s actions as they’d been related to him by Porthos. He ended his message with a recommendation that the Musketeer take temporary command of the regiment while he and the others recovered in Paris. Unknown to LaRue, Athos had already decided to speak to Treville about promoting the man so that he could eventually take charge of his own regiment of infantrymen.

 

Despite the directness of their route, travelling by wagon was still an arduous process, and as the men began to regain some of their strength, they railed against the need to stay in the cart versus riding alongside it. Only the fact that Aramis was physically unable to ride, owing to his leg wound and his broken rib, kept Porthos and Athos in check; both men knew the medic would happily follow through on his threat to report them to Treville if they tried to take to their horses, thereby extending their time off-duty.

 

d’Artagnan’s presence in the wagon was a foregone conclusion who, with his eyes wrapped, couldn’t have ridden even if he’d been physically well enough to do so. It was another reason that Aramis refused to let either of their friends ride, recognizing the benefit to the Gascon’s mood when all of them were near. It was clear that the young man was still deeply troubled about the possibility of being permanently blind, even though Pernet had done his best to assure the Musketeer before they’d departed.

 

_“Now, d’Artagnan, you must keep your eyes bandaged for a full week,” the doctor advised as he finished wrapping fresh linen around the young man’s face. “I know that it will be tempting to remove this early,” he said as he lightly tapped the bandage at the Musketeer’s temple, “but you must promise me that you’ll resist.”_

_Pernet’s gaze shifted to Aramis, seeking a similar promise, the medic nodding as d’Artagnan replied. “I promise, Doctor. Besides, I’m fairly certain that my friends will be watching me to make sure I follow your orders.” The last part was said with a faint smile that made Aramis’ lips quirk in return._

_“You’re right about that, d’Artagnan. I know how you get once you start feeling better, so I’ll be making sure those bandages don’t come off even a few hours early,” Aramis confirmed, although he was fairly certain that the Gascon wouldn’t try anything that might compromise his chances of regaining his sight._

 

Athos and Porthos had joined them at that point, and with a final check from Pernet, the men had slowly made their way to the courtyard, Porthos assisting Aramis, while Athos guided d’Artagnan. It was fortunate that the doctor had had the foresight to provide pain draughts for all the men, since their first two days were especially uncomfortable as the hard wheels of the wagon seemed to find every rut and rock in the road. When Paris finally came into sight on their fifth day of travel, the recovering men were just as grateful as those accompanying them to get a glimpse of home.

 

As expected, Athos took only a few minutes to don fresh clothes before heading to the palace to report to Treville. Aramis’ look of disapproval followed the older man as he mounted his horse and rode out of the garrison. Porthos, at the marksman’s request, got the other two wounded men settled into their rooms, both sufficiently recovered that they no longer needed the additional care available in the infirmary.

 

That left Aramis alone with d’Artagnan, and the medic helped the Gascon from the wagon, having made it clear earlier that the young man would not want assistance from anyone else in the regiment. As a result, those who’d guarded them during their journey had quietly dispersed, looking forward to a couple days of respite before having to return to the front.

 

“Alright, d’Artagnan, we’re at the edge of the wagon,” Aramis said as he guided the young man. “Sit down here and then you can just slide off the back.”

 

“My legs are fine, you know,” the Gascon replied, even though he was already doing as his friend had asked.

 

Aramis rolled his eyes despite being privately pleased that some of his friend’s independent nature was reasserting itself. “Humor me, then. My leg won’t bear it if I try to jump down.”

 

They slipped from the back of the cart together, the marksman wincing as his stiff leg took his weight. Keeping his hand on d’Artagnan’s arm under the pretense of needing the support, Aramis limped forward, chatting conversationally while inserting helpful tidbits of information to allow the young man to move safely. They reached the room that the Gascon now shared with his wife, and Aramis remarked on some of the homey touches Constance had added since their departure as he guided d’Artagnan to the bed. Claiming weariness, the medic then settled comfortably into a chair, continuing to chatter about nothing of consequence until his friend had drifted off to sleep.

 

As the marksman had expected, Athos had spoken to Constance while at the palace and advised her of her husband’s injuries. As anticipated, the woman had immediately asked the Queen for permission to leave, and returned to the garrison to be at d’Artagnan’s side. When the young man had woken, his new bride had reaffirmed her love and her intention to remain at her husband’s side, lifting some of the pall that had remained over d’Artagnan as the men had made their way home.

 

Aramis had left at that point, following Athos out the door, the older man having accompanied Constance back. “It seems we were correct,” the marksman remarked once they’d pulled the door closed behind them. Athos gave a noncommittal grunt in reply, secretly relieved that what he’d said to d’Artagnan hadn’t proven to be false.

 

The next days passed in comfortable routine, each of the recovering men ordered to rest as much possible, with the small allowance that Athos would need to spend a limited amount of time each day attending to matters related to his command. Aramis and Porthos had no such obligations and spent their free time either at d’Artagnan’s side, or providing tutelage to the recruits in their areas of expertise. As such, it was rare for the young man to ever be alone, a fact that was beginning to grate on the Gascon’s nerves, so when Constance was unexpectedly called back to the palace, he told her not to worry since one of the others would be by soon.

 

When the door closed behind his wife, d’Artagnan breathed out a sigh of relief. He desperately needed some time to himself and away from his well-meaning friends. The deadline for removing the bandages from his eyes loomed in the morning, and he couldn’t help but feel the anxiety building in his chest as the appointed time drew closer. While his friends and Constance had all assured him of their fidelity and support, the Gascon couldn’t help but want to prepare himself, in case the worst came to pass. Despite Pernet’s warnings, he needed to know if he was blind, and the only way to do that was to remove the wrappings from his eyes.

 

Now that he was finally alone, his searching fingers roved around the linen that had stayed in place since the doctor had applied it before their departure from the chateau. When he found the end of the bandage he worked it loose, and began to unwind it from around his head. The last bit of it fell free and dropped into his lap, and he let his hands follow, deathly scared of what was to come.

 

Now that he’d gotten his wish and the opportunity to test his sight, he found himself paralyzed with fear at the possibility that he wouldn’t be able to see. As his anxiety increased, he could feel his heartrate climbing. Clenching his hands into tight fists, he forced his breaths to slow, inhaling deeply and then allowing a long, measured exhale. It took several minutes, but eventually his heart calmed and he allowed his hands to relax, feeling their clamminess.

 

With one last steadying breath, he opened his eyes. He managed only a second before he had to snap them closed, as they stung and teared after being wrapped for so long. Bringing a trembling hand upwards, he covered his eyes and tried again, this time opening his lids to mere slits. It still hurt, but he could keep them open, and he blinked several times as he tried to adjust. Gradually, he was able to lift his lids higher and then moved his hand aside, his eyes fixed and staring straight ahead.

 

It was almost overwhelming, and he could feel fresh tears springing to his eyes, the moisture now trickling down his cheeks with every blink. He didn’t care, though, and made no move to stem the tide, needing the cathartic release that only crying could offer. It wasn’t until the sound of boots reached his ears that he lifted a hand to his face, swiping at the evidence of his release. He’d just finished and let his hand drop to his lap when the door opened, followed by the voices of his friends. Porthos barked out a loud guffaw, the sound of which was followed closely by Aramis’ laughter, the men obviously sharing something of amusement.

 

“d’Artagnan,” Porthos greeted, as he led the trio’s way into the bedroom. “You won’t believe what Aramis just told me.” The men managed only a few steps into the room when they stopped, realizing that the young man was sitting up in bed with his eyes unwrapped and open.

 

Aramis was the first to recover and take another step forward, Athos catching him by the arm a moment later to halt his progress. With a quick flash of annoyance at the older man, the medic returned his attention to the Gascon as he said, “You removed your bandages.” When the young man remained silent, the marksman added, “They weren’t to come off until tomorrow morning.”

 

d’Artagnan gave a minute nod as he softly replied, “I know.” Closing his eyes and allowing his head to drop forward, he said, “I had to know.”

 

The three friends looked at each other nervously, each man wondering if the young man’s dejected demeanor meant that he still couldn’t see. Licking his lips, Porthos queried, “And – what’s the verdict?”

 

The Gascon lifted his face to them and blinked. Athos moved forward, his gaze locked onto his protégé’s. “You can see,” he breathed out. d’Artagnan no longer looked past or through him, but was focused instead on his face. The look was unmistakable, and Athos was certain the young man’s sight had returned. “You can see,” he repeated, this time louder, drawing the attention of the other two.

 

Aramis and Porthos stepped forward at once, again flanking the older man as they asked, almost in tandem, “Is he right? Can you see?”

 

A wide smile split d’Artagnan’s face as he looked from one blurry face to the next, the message clear – his sight had returned. For the first time since he’d been injured the Gascon laughed, the others joining him almost at once, the sound echoing through the room and washing away the last of their fears. 

* * *

There was no glory in war. There was only savagery and brutality, fueled by the raw need to survive, beating down the enemy before they could strike you down first. It left a man heaving for air, covered in blood, and staring numbly at a battleground littered with bodies. The fortunate ones were dead; the unfortunate would be dragged off the field and tended in the makeshift infirmary, held down by comrades-in-arms as lead balls were dug out of muscle, and holes caused by steel and shrapnel were doused with strong alcohol before being swiftly stitched closed. After the battle ended, it was eerily silent, the stillness broken only by the pained cries of the wounded.

 

Men walked amongst the bodies, first, to search for the living, next, to recover usable weapons, and lastly, if there was time, to remove the dead before doing it all again the next day. Soldiers eventually became desensitized to the sights and sounds; it was the only way they could retain even the slimmest grasp on reality rather than going mad with the cruelty they witnessed every day. That men could treat others in this fashion was unfathomable, until you’d experienced the thrill of adrenaline when running onto the field of battle, or the sheer terror of having to fight for your life against opponents who were just as willing to die for their cause as you were.

 

There was no rational thought in battle - only instinct. Planning and logic was left to those absent from the battlefield, pouring over maps and developing strategy far away from the dirt and blood and death. Those men could callously speak of attacks and ambushes, the men they commanded nothing more than a list of numbers that represented the strength of their forces; they knew nothing of the soldiers’ names and faces, only tallies of victories and defeats.

 

A manic giggle sprang forth from the man’s lips as he surveyed the scene around him, too reminiscent of what he’d experienced every day since his regiment had been despatched. A part of his brain recognized that his reaction was wrong, and he should be worried about his inability to stop, but there was nothing right about any of what surrounded him. He could feel the wet stickiness that coated his hands and face, dimly recalling the spray of blood from his opponents as he’d snuffed out their lives. Each move had been ferocious in its intensity, meant to kill or incapacitate as efficiently as possible, without thought for technique or the elegance he’d previously associated with his swordwork. War was a ruthless affair, and the Gascon wondered how he could ever have looked forward to being in its midst.

 

“d’Artagnan,” Athos’ hand clamped down firmly on the young man’s arm. He’d heard the sound of laughter bubbling forth from the Gascon’s lips and recognized its wrongness. The touch would hopefully ground his friend, and the older man moved his hand upwards, ignoring the red that painted the boy’s cheek. Cupping it in his hand, Athos almost pulled back when he felt the coolness of the young man’s skin as he tried again. “d’Artagnan, come back to me.” He turned the Gascon’s head slightly, forcing the young man to face him.

 

Another hand landed on the spot where Athos’ had so recently rested, as Porthos squeezed their youngest’s arm. “d’Artagnan, you alright?” the larger man’s deep baritone questioned as he added his concern to the Captain’s.

 

“d’Artagnan,” Aramis’ voice came from behind the Gascon, the marksman placing his palm against the young man’s upper back. In this position, the medic leaned forward slightly over the boy’s shoulder, even as his mind registered the feeling of the staccato beats beneath his hand. d’Artagnan’s heart was racing and his breathing matched its frenetic pace, and Aramis couldn’t help but move his hand higher until it cupped the nape of his friend’s neck.

 

“d’Artagnan, are you with us?” Athos asked, leaning in closer while the other two did the same, the Gascon almost disappearing within their midst.

 

The return to the battlefield had been nerve-racking and exciting, d’Artagnan eager to show that he was fully healed after too many months spent convalescing. After his sight had begun to return, he’d thought things would be simple, but fate had had other plans for him. His vision improved almost daily, until the blurriness and headaches had all but disappeared. If that had been his only infirmity, he’d have been returned to active duty long ago, but his shoulder muscles had been badly damaged, the combination of lead and steel ripping into his flesh leaving an indelible impression behind.  

 

The first sign of concern had been the tingling and numbness in his fingers and hand, the sensation often spreading upwards until his entire arm felt as though covered by ants. Thankfully, the periods of intense discomfort were sporadic, but their continued presence warned of underlying damage that would need to be addressed. Next came the ongoing weakness in the limb, and despite d’Artagnan’s diligent efforts, he could barely grasp a cup let alone a pistol. When Constance had disclosed the young man’s secret, the three men had rallied around him, refusing to give up.

 

They’d begun to do whatever they could within their power to keep the young man’s spirits up as he struggled to recover. For Aramis, that meant consultation with other physicians, and Treville ensured that this included the King’s own doctor whenever the Minister could arrange it. Porthos spent hours at the young man’s side, working with him to stretch and strengthen the healing muscles, never allowing his friend to shirk the exercises that the doctors prescribed. Athos had less time to dedicate to the Gascon’s recovery, his duties as commander of the regiment occupying much of his day, but the nights were his own and he spent his evenings with d’Artagnan, atypically becoming responsible for keeping up the boy’s morale and ensuring that he didn’t give up.

 

Constance was there as much as her duties at the palace allowed, providing food, support, and a foundation that meant that d’Artagnan would never be alone, regardless of his uncertain future. That knowledge alone buoyed the young man and gave him the desire to keep trying, regardless of the many setbacks he faced. Their concerted efforts had paid off, and four months after d’Artagnan’s initial injury, he travelled back to the frontlines to fight alongside his friends.

 

Today’s battle had been his first since he’d been wounded, and the sights and sounds had been as terrifying as he remembered. Despite that, he’d pushed aside his fears, reminding himself that he should be grateful that he was alive to experience them. When their line had advanced, he’d easily fallen into his old role, attacking any enemy who was unlucky enough to end up in his path. When it had ended, he’d stood looking upon the devastation in shock, recalling his more innocent days when he’d been excited by the thought of going to war.

 

The sights and smells around him made his stomach clench and his heart race. Some part of his mind realized he was panicking, but once his body had started, it seemed like he was out of control and he couldn’t stop it from happening. If only his friends were near, they would know what to do, and their absence made his breaths saw harshly in and out of his chest until he felt lightheaded.

 

“d’Artagnan,” the voice sounded far away and he wished it would come again so he could use it to find his way back. Seconds later he heard it once more and felt the warmth of something on his cheek. The sensation appeared on his arm and back next, and he was certain someone was speaking to him, although he couldn’t discern the words. Suddenly, there was a face directly in front of him, and he couldn’t have looked away no matter how badly he wanted to.

 

“d’Artagnan, are you with us?” the face asked, and his brain supplied a name – Athos. As if waking from a dream, his vision sharpened, and Athos’ concerned expression was all he could see. At his side he could feel Porthos’ large hand, the strength there both steadying and comforting at the same time. Behind him was Aramis’ warm presence, his curls tickling the Gascon’s face as he leaned over the young man’s shoulder.

 

Releasing a shaky breath, he forced himself to inhale slowly, feeling his galloping heart slow to a trot as he came back to himself. Another cleansing breath and he felt capable of speech. “I’m here,” he whispered, seeing the immediate relief on his mentor’s face even though he believed that he’d spoken too lowly to be heard.

 

Next to him Porthos was squeezing his arm, his gruff voice rumbling in the young man’s ear, “’Bout time.” The words were teasing but they were spoken with an unmistakably sombre tone, and d’Artagnan began to realize that he’d scared his friends.

 

From his other side, Aramis chimed in, “Let’s get back to camp. I need to have a proper look at you.”

 

d’Artagnan turned his head to face the marksman, a confused expression on his face as he said, “But, I’m fine.”

 

“d’Artagnan,” Athos waited until the young man was facing forwards again. “You were not yourself for several minutes.” Pausing, he chose he words carefully, well aware that the Gascon had had his fill of others mothering him. “You scared us.”

 

The young man momentarily ducked his head in embarrassment, his mentor’s words confirming what he’d suspected. Looking up, he repositioned himself, bringing Aramis forward until the three men stood in a tight semi-circle in front of him. With a hand on Aramis’ and Porthos’ arms, he held each man’s gaze in turn as he explained. “You’re right – I wasn’t fine. I was scared and excited, and probably a hundred other things, but most of all I was overwhelmed. I’d forgotten what it can be like out here,” he gestured for a moment with one hand toward the battlefield. “When we left, I couldn’t see it and was wrapped up in my own misery and despair. When my sight returned, I thought only of my desire to do my duty and once more fight at your sides. My memory pushed away all of this, and now I can’t help but be reminded of what we endured at Peguero’s hand.”

 

He dropped his gaze for several seconds as he collected his thoughts, needing his friends to understand. “War is ugly, and brutal, and completely without glory, and I pray that none of our children will ever have to experience it. But what Pegeuro did was worse than anything that happens on any battlefield.”

 

“d’Artagnan, I’m sorry,” Aramis began, but the young man interrupted the apology.

 

“No, Aramis, no more apologies. What happened wasn’t your fault; it was that Spanish bastard’s,” the Gascon interjected. “When the war first began, I could not wait to see what it was like. Now that I’ve had some experience with it, I know how foolish that was. I understand now that men distinguish themselves not through glorious acts of bravery, but through acts of honor. That’s what Peguero taught me.” He looked earnestly at all of his friends, “There is no glory in war, only honorable men, and I have the privilege of having three of the most honorable at my side.”

 

For several long moments, the Musketeers stared at one another, before collectively moving closer, their arms coming up to embrace the men at their sides. As they stood there, holding on to those who were among the dearest in the world to them, d’Artagnan’s words echoed in their heads, _“There is no glory – only honor.”_

 

End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for such a warm response to this story. I'm grateful for every kudos and comment, which helped me to experience this story from the reader's perspective. Much appreciation also to AZGirl, whose amazing beta skills smoothed out the rough edges; I have no doubt that she helped me improve this tale with her wonderful suggestions. Until next time!


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